EMOR1AM 


JESSICA  PEIXOTTO 
1941 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


1S50  copies  of  this  work  have  been  printed 
of  which  this  is  number. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S 
HOLIDAY 


BY 

GEORGE  MOORE 


NEW  YORK 
PRIVATELY  PRINTED  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  ONLY  BY 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
GEORGE  MOORE 

All  Rights  Reserved 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


A  LEAVE-TAKING 

A  LEAVE-TAKING  this  certainly  is  of  a  great  many 
readers,  but  I  have  faith  in  the  good  sense  of  all  my 
readers,  for  they  are  not  a  heterogeneous  crowd,  but  a 
family,  and  every  one  of  the  family  knows  how  steadfast 
the  persecution  of  my  writings  has  been  since  the  publica- 
tion, forty  years  ago,  of  a  little  volume  of  poems  entitled 
Flowers  of  Passion. 

As  I  write  I  can  hear  a  reader  saying  to  himself  as  he 
paces  his  room:  it  is  not  two  years  since  somebody 
pleaded  at  Bow  Street  that  The  Brook  Kerith  should  be 
interdicted  but  the  magistrate  refused  to  issue  the  war- 
rant; and  last  November  in  the  Law  Courts  the  jury,  after 
having  listened  a  whole  day  to  a  libel  action,  returned 
a  verdict  of  no  libel  and  no  damages.  But  the  fact  that 
the  magistrate  refused  to  grant  a  warrant  and  the  jury  to 
convict  is  not  sufficient  compensation  for  the  proffered 
insults,  and  our  author  has  done  well  to  retire  into  a 
literary  arcanum  where  he  will  be  able  to  practise  his 
art  in  dignified  privacy. 

Another  reader  crosses  his  legs  and  meditates:  George 
Moore  was  never  welcome  in  Grub  Street  for  he  wished  to 
write  for  men  and  women  of  letters,  and  this  class  is  not 
recognised  by  the  libraries  as  readers  of  books;  strange 
that  it  should  be  so,  but  it  is  so;  for  whilst  there  are  books 
for  astronomers,  for  scientists,  for  doctors,  for  lawyers,  for 
golfers,  for  cricketers,  for  chess  players,  for  yachtsmen, 
and  as  for  young  girls  in  their  teens,  voluminous  literature 
awaits  them  every  year,  there  are  no  books  written  for 
men  and  women  of  letters  exclusively.  By  private  print- 
ing our  author  has  cut  himself  off  from  many  readers,  but 
the  alternative  was  for  him  to  cease  writing. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


CHAPTER  1. 

THE  Irish  mail  passes  out  of  Euston  Station  with  the 
easy  movement  of  a  deep,  smooth  river,  or  of  a  reptile 
gliding  over  soft  grass,  and  the  feeling  of  contentment  and 
well-being,  almost  of  happiness,  produced  by  the  vague 
rhythm  of  the  train  is  augmented  by  the  beauty  of  the 
fields  and  their  hedgerows  unfolding  mile  after  mile 
under  the  languor  of  a  June  sunset.  And  all  this  while 
the  traveller  perceives  the  elms  showing  fine  design  on 
the  fading  day,  rising  out  of  the  may  with  noble  gesture, 
almost  like  sculpture,  he  murmurs,  as  he  yields  himself  to 
admiration  of  the  trees  advancing  and  retiring,  forming 
into  groups  at  the  corners  of  the  fields  and  collecting  into 
woods  on  the  hill-sides.  And  no  sooner  have  they  collected 
themselves  into  woods,  he  says,  than  they  disperse  to 
gather  themselves  again  into  thickets,  shaws  and  copses. 
Going  to  Ireland,  he  continues,  is  like  travelling  through 
a  forest  with  clearings  in  it.  The  word  forest,  however, 
does  not  satisfy  him;  it  is  too  evocative  of  wild  and  un- 
couth nature  such  as  we  have  not  here,  he  adds.  A  chase, 
perhaps,  but  even  a  chase  conveys  an  idea  of  almost  wild 
landscape,  and  this  one  is  deliberately  wooded;  it  is  a 
well-ordered  domain  through  which  the  train  carries  us 
like  a  smooth  river.  And  the  feeling  of  contentment 
and  well-being,  almost  of  happiness,  that  began  to  take 
possession  of  him  soon  after  the  train  left  London  returns 
now  exalted  by  what  remains  of  the  sunset;  a  faint  flush 
seen  through  grey  clouds;  a  bygone  sunset,  the  traveller 
remarks,  taking  pleasure  in  the  words.     We  pursue  the 

s 


4  A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

sunset,  he  mutters  to  himself,  and,  amused  by  the  thought 
that  himself  and  his  fellow-travellers  are  raiders  in  pursuit 
of  the  sunset's  gold,  he  begins  to  dream  a  romantic  fable, 
and  the  paragraphs  end  so  prettily  in  his  dream  that  he 
thinks  he  has  written  the  story,  and  experiences  on  arriving 
at  Rugby  some  faint  surprise  when  the  newspaper  boy 
does  not  offer  to  sell  him  a  book  entitled  Sunset's  Gold, 
with  his  name  upon  it — just  published,  sir. 

The  dreaming  traveller  is  none  other,  O  reader,  than 
thy  friend  George  Moore,  come  to  entertain  thee  once 
more;  and  having  robbed  the  sunset's  gold,  reader,  we 
are  now  flying  through  the  night,  pursued  by  the  Dawn, 
who  would  recover  the  gold  robbed  of  her  sister.  Thou'lt 
forgive  this  attempt  to  entertain  thee  with  a  literary 
sequel  as  false  as  such  things  usually  are,  and  thou  shalt 
not  be  imposed  upon.  Between  London  and  Rugby  we  did 
seem  like  travellers  in  pursuit  of  the  sunset,  but  when 
the  train  rolled  out  of  Rugby  we  became  commonplace 
travellers  on  our  way  to  Dublin,  myself  ashamed  of  my 
fable,  at  least  of  the  second  part  of  it,  and  glad  to  know 
that  nobody  need  ever  hear  anything  about  it,  not  even 
my  publisher. 

The  evening  paper  was  opened,  but  it  proved  itself  to  be 
so  eventless  that  I  was  compelled  into  a  deep  scrutiny 
of  the  man  sitting  opposite  to  me,  but  despite  my  study 
of  him,  he  has  passed  out  of  my  mind  I  fear  for  ever. 
All  I  can  recall  in  present  time  is  a  tall  man  of  rather 
common    appearance,    who    spoke    with    a    brogue    and 

told  me  that  he  travelled  for Again  my  memory 

is  at  fault,  I  cannot  remember  if  he  was  in  the  dry  goods 
or  the  whisky  line,  but  am  persuaded  that  our  con- 
versation began  with:  I  hope,  sir,  we  shall  have  a  fine 
crossing. 

Of  course,  I  answered,  we  shall  have  a  fine  crossing, 
how  can  you  doubt  it?  At  which  my  fellow-traveller's 
face  became  overcast,  and  after  a  pause  he  said:  may  I 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY  5 

ask,  sir,  why  you're  sure  we  shall  have  a  fine  crossing? 
Because  I  am  I,  an  alarm-provoking  remark  that  I  sought 
to  quieten  later,  saying  that  having  crossed  the  Irish 
Sea  so  many  times  without  seeing  anything  like  a  wave 
I  had  come  to  regard  the  Irish  Sea  as  waveless.  Else- 
where there  are  waves,  no  doubt;  we  read  of  waves 
in  the  newspapers  and  in  books,  and  my  friends  have 
spoken  to  me  about  waves,  but  so  far  as  my  own  experi- 
ence goes  waves  do  not  exist.  And  after  all,  I  added,  one 
must  be  guided  by  one's  own  experience  rather  than  by 
what  one  reads  and  hears;  isn't  that  so? 

My  fellow-traveller  looked  at  me  inquiringly,  and  as  if 
dissatisfied  with  his  examination  of  my  face  returned  to 
his  newspaper.  But  soon  after  I  began  to  notice  that  he 
was  watching  me  again  over  the  rims  of  his  spectacles, 
and  like  one  who  is  unable  to  conquer  his  curiosity  he 
said:  I  believe  you  when  you  say  that  the  Irish  Sea  is 
always  calm  when  you  cross  it,  and  that  you  have  crossed 
it  some  hundreds  of  times,  but  will  you  tell  me  what  con- 
clusion you  draw  from  the  uninterrupted  good  luck 
which  has  attended  you?  I  answered  that  I  submitted 
the  facts  to  him  and  that  it  was  for  him  to  draw  con- 
clusions, and  he  asked  me  if  he  would  have  my  approval 
if  he  concluded  from  the  facts  before  him  that  the  sea 
did  not  wish  to  destroy  me.  On  the  contrary,  I  answered. 
The  sea  is  kind  to  those  whom  it  has  selected  to  destroy. 
My  life  will  end  in  the  sea,  but  not  necessarily  in  the 
Irish  Sea.  It  is  a  relief,  however,  in  a  way  to  know  what 
one's  end  will  be.     Have  you  never  received  tidings? 

My  fellow-traveller  returned  to  his  newspaper  and  it 
was  some  time  before  he  made  another  remark.  You 
believe  then,  sir,  that  life  and  death  is  determined  at 
birth  and  that  none  can  escape  his  fate?  Before  I  can 
answer  you  I  must  ask  if  you're  a  Protestant  or  a  Catholic. 
But  it  doesn't  matter  which,  in  either  case  you  believe 
that  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  it  is  His 


6  A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

will.  Isn't  that  so?  He  answered  that  he  believed  God 
to  be  all-knowing,  and  again  returned  to  his  paper.  At 
Crewe,  however,  he  laid  it  aside  and  poked  his  head  out 
of  the  window.  I  think  you're  right,  sir,  we  shall  have 
a  fine  crossing.  Didn't  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  there  are  no 
waves  when  I  cross  the  Irish  Channel?  You're  unbelieving 
and  incredulous,  yet  you  wear  the  credulous  Catholic  face. 

As  my  fellow-traveller  admitted  himself  to  be  a  Catholic 
it  seemed  to  me  pleasing  to  relate  that  Protestantism  and 
Catholicism  were  founded  the  same  day  at  Antioch,  and 
till  the  Menai  Bridge  interrupted  my  narrative,  I  made 
plain  the  differences  that  existed  between  Peter  and  Paul. 
But  as  no  trace  of  the  objections  he  raised  to  my  theology 
between  the  Menai  Tunnel  and  Holyhead  is  discover- 
able, however  diligently  I  searched  my  memory,  I  presume 
that  we  wearied  a  little  of  each  other  during  the  journey 
across  Anglesea:  or  else  we  became  so  absorbed  by  the 
beauty  of  the  twilight  that  we  forgot  Peter  and  Paul,  as 
excellent  a  thing  to  do  as  it  is  to  remember  them,  for  had 
it  not  been  for  Peter  and  Paul  I  might  not  have  been  able 
to  abandon  myself  wholeheartedly  to  the  beauty  of  the 
almost  transparent  veil  that  falls  across  the  sky  in  June, 
dividing  night  from  day  by  not  more  than  two  or  three 
hours,  and  to  the  almost  equal  beauty  of  the  twilit  sea. 

In  another  hour  the  first  gulls  will  be  flying  around  us, 
I  said  to  myself,  and  sat  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  east 
till  I  beheld  bars  of  silver  and  a  great  phantom  ship 
looming  through  the  dusk.  The  night,  I  said,  has 
begun  to  evaporate  like  a  pale  curl  of  blue  smoke;  it 
was  not  much  more,  I  added,  and  dropped  into  dreams 
of  the  romance  of  sails  rising,  yard  after  yard,  the  top- 
gallant yard  melting  into  clouds  and  the  sails  drawing 
the  great  ship  charged  with  many  destinies  away,  whither? 
Perhaps  to  end  by  the  firing  of  a  German  torpedo.  At 
these  words  I  felt  for  the  tube  whereby  my  life-belt 
was  inflated,  saying,  and  saying  well:  if  we  be  torpedoed 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY  7 

I  have  as  good  a  chance  to  be  saved  as  another,  for  as 
soon  as  the  torpedo  crashes  into  us  I  shall  blow  out  the 
life-belt  and  shall  be  picked  up  in  not  less  than  an  hour 
or  two  of  immersion  in  the  cool  sea,  somewhat  exhausted 
but  alive. 


CHAPTER  2. 

IT  must  have  been  soon  after  this  pleasing  thought 
that  the  gentleman  in  the  dry  goods  or  the  whisky  line 
who  had  travelled  with  me  from  Rugby  took  the  seat 
beside  me,  and  began:  well,  sir,  as  is  usual  the  sea  is 
waveless,  and  I  answered  him  that  if  he  wished  it  to  be 
waveless  when  he  returned  he  had  better  return  with  me. 
The  suggestion  seemed  to  appeal  to  him,  but  from  a 
certain  embarrassment  in  his  manner  I  judged  that  he 
was  minded  to  put  a  question. 

Have  you  ever  been  for  a  long  sea  voyage?  he  asked, 
and  I  answered  him  that  I  had  never  been  across  the 
Atlantic,  but  that  I  had  been  six  days  out  to  sea  from 
Marseilles  to  Port  Said.  And  never  seen  a  wave?  he 
inquired.  At  most  a  slight  swell,  a  wave  implies  a  white 
crest,  I  replied,  and  seeing  that  he  was  not  averse  from 
hearing  an  account  of  my  voyage  I  began  to  tell  a  dream 
that  murmured  in  me  ever  since  my  father  took  me  on  his 
knee  to  tell  me  his  travels.  As  far  back  as  I  can  remember, 
I  said,  the  Mediterranean  has  appeared  always  in  my 
imagination  as  the  bluest  of  seas  and  as  the  birthplace 
of  all  beautiful  legends  and  stories.  The  bluest  and 
beautifullest  of  seas,  I  said,  hoping  to  cow  my  fellow- 
traveller  with  alliteration.  But  he  was  eager  for  some 
information  regarding  Marseilles,  and  I  told  him  briefly 
of  the  strange  white  shore  that  we  sailed  past,  chalk  cliff 
or  salt,  ghostly  shores,  I  said,  on  which  nothing  grows. 
A  rabbit  could  not  pick  up  a  living,  I  interjected.     But 


8  A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

weren't  you  curious  to  know  if  it  was  a  promontory  or  an 
island  that  you  sailed  past?  I  had  no  mind  for  geo- 
graphical details,  I  was  thinking  of  Sicily,  for  it  was  in 
Sicily  that  rugged  Polyphemus  peering  over  some  cliffs 
discerned  Galatea  in  the  foam,  and  it  was  on  the  Plain  of 
Enna  that  Proserpine  was  raped  while  gathering  flowers 
with  her  maidens;  but  none  of  my  fellow-travellers  could 
be  persuaded  to  listen  to  these  stories,  and  I  swore  that 
when  I  descended  to  the  dusky  halls  where  she  sat  be- 
side Pluto  I  should  not  forget  to  bring  her  a  bunch  of 
asphodels  to  remind  her  of  this  world's  beauty,  almost 
forgotten  by  her.  None,  I  continued,  had  a  thought  for 
these  beautiful  legends;  they  were  interested  to  see  a 
vulgar  volcano  eruptive  on  the  horizon.  I  begged  of 
them  to  remember  that  we  should  soon  be  passing  the 
very  place  where  Jupiter  disguised  in  the  form  of  a  bull 
carried  away  Europa  for  his  pleasure  and  for  hers.  But 
you,  sir,  are  perhaps  as  indifferent  to  these  stories  as 
they,  yet  the  garlanded  bull,  stemming  the  waves,  Europa 
keeping  her  seat  on  one  shoulder  by  the  help  of  a  horn, 
the  sea  nymphs  singing  hymns  and  throwing  their  tresses 
for  joy  in  the  air  while  Tritons  blew  conch  shells,  was  a 
finer  sight  than  a  volcano.  But,  said  my  companion,  you 
don't  believe  in  these  legends?  Nobody  knows  what 
he  believes,  I  replied,  and  nothing  is  certain  but  our 
attachment  to  the  legends  that  represent  our  ideas  and 
help  us  to  live.  Moreover  do  not  all  mythologies  rely 
upon  the  union  of  divinity  with  the  mortal;  and  does  not 
Deity  in  all  the  mythologies  take  the  form  of  some  beast 
or  bird?  In  one  story  the  Deity  is  a  bull,  in  another  an 
eagle,  in  a  third  a  dove,  two  women  at  least  were  trodden 
by  birds.  I  looked  into  my  companion's  eyes  and  waited 
for  an  outburst.  But  he  sat  unmoved.  Have  I  said 
anything  that  seems  unreasonable  to  you?  I  asked.  I'm 
thinking,  he  rejoined,  that  you'll  not  find  many  in  Ireland 
that  will  appreciate  the  stories  you've  been  telling  me. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY  9 

You're  not  going  there  preaching,  are  you?  for  if  you  are 
be  advised  by  me  and  turn  back.  No,  I  answered,  I'm 
not  going  to  preach  anything.  Then  you're  going  to 
Ireland  to  see  the  ruins?  And  I  answered  that  I  always 
took  an  interest  in  ruins  wherever  I  might  find  them  and 
that  it  was  for  its  ruins  that  we  all  loved  Ireland.  And 
this  remark  led  us  straight  into  the  Ulster  question. 

Without  Ulster,  my  companion  said,  there  can  be  no 
Home  Rule,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  could  tell  me  why  the 
Catholics  were  so  anxious  to  get  Ulster,  and  if  he  could 
explain  how  Ireland  could  be  free  if  Ulster  was  to  be 
coerced.  My  fellow-traveller  stiffly  repudiated  any  desire 
on  the  part  of  the  Nationalist  Party  for  help  to  coerce 
Ulster,  and  begged  me  to  believe  that  the  National  Party 
only  desired  Ulster  because  Home  Rule  would  be  im- 
possible without  Ulster.  Neither  coercion  nor  cajolery, 
he  cried;  let  them  come  in  like  men  and  help  us  to  build 
a  new  Ireland.  We  became  strenuous,  and  continued 
strenuous  till  I  began  to  perceive  we  were  missing  the 
sunrise.  The  dawn  is  breaking,  I  said;  tell  me  if  you 
think  there  are  tones  as  beautiful  as  those  flower-like 
blues  on  any  painter's  palette,  or  a  rose  as  pure  as  those 
little  puffy  clouds  like  Cupids.  I  agree  with  you,  he 
replied;  but  without  Ulster  there  can  be  no  Home  Rule; 
we  must  have  a  business  head. 

Let  us  not  talk  of  Home  Rule,  but  admire  the  morning 
sun.  And  now  a  word  of  advice:  if  Roman  Catholics 
could  think  more  of  the  sunrise  and  less  about  Ulster  there 
might  be  a  sunrise  in  Ireland.  Look,  I  said,  how  the  sun 
flashes  above  the  horizon.  You  don't  believe  then,  he 
asked,  that  through  a  rising  tide  of  discontent  Mr.  Asquith 
will  bring  about  a  settlement?  You'll  have  to  define  the 
word  settlement  before  I  can  answer  you,  I  said.  Nothing 
is  ever  settled  in  this  world.  Everything  is  becoming. 
We  can  have  no  knowledge  of  anything,  for  nothing  in 
this  world  is  permanent,  unless  talk.     In  Ireland  talk  is 


10        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

permanent  and  yet But  I  have  no  wish  to  criticise, 

I  withdraw  that  last  remark.  And  you'll  do  well  to 
withdraw  the  remark  you  made  about  Mr.  Asquith  who 
visited  a  hospital  and  addressing  himself  to  a  wounded 
Sinn  Feiner  said:  what  do  you  think  now  of  the  re- 
bellion? The  wounded  boy's  answer  was:  well,  I  think 
it  was  a  grand  success.  And  why  do  you  think  that? 
was  the  unabashed  Minister's  next  question.  Well,  sir, 
because  you're  here.  You  must  admit  that  the  Irish 
have  not  lost  their  wit?  But  are  you  sure  that  the 
boy's  answer  did  not  come  out  of  an  innocent  heart? 
I  inquired,  and  my  fellow-traveller  no  doubt  gave  an 
answer,  but  it  must  have  been  a  flat  one  else  I  should 
have  remembered  it,  and  bidding  my  fellow-traveller 
good-bye  I  said  to  myself:  I'll  consult  the  jarvey  that 
drives  me  from  the  station. 

What  will  content  you?  I  asked. 

Sure  we  don't  want  to  be  contented,  he  replied,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  he  had,  unwittingly,  expressed  a 
human  feeling. 


CHAPTER  3. 

A  FEW  hours  later  the  young  doctor  who  supplies 
Dublin  with  jokes  entertained  me  on  the  steps  of  the 
Shelbourne  Inn  with  his  views,  telling  me  that  it  was  the 
rebellion  in  Dublin  that  had  given  the  English  army  a 
chance  of  redeeming  its  credit.  In  every  other  encounter 
it  has  come  off  second-best,  he  said,  but  in  Dublin  it  can 
claim  a  victory,  a  plausible  set-off  for  the  defeat  of  Kut. 
He,  too,  represents  another  phase  of  the  Irish  mind,  the 
one  that  sees  a  joke  or  an  epigram  in  all  circumstances, 
thereby  contriving  to  survive  an  habitual  discontent.  But 
are  there  no  ruins  in  Stephen's  Green?  I  asked,  and  he 
told  me  the  finest  were  to  be  seen  in  Sackville  Street, 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        11 

adding,  that  the  oven  changes  many  an  ugly  carcass  into 
a  sweet-smelting  roast.  The  oven  improves  us  all — 
houses  as  well  as  men  and  beasts,  fishes  and  birds,  and 
potatoes  are  better  baked  than  boiled.  Good-bye  till 
dinner-time.  And  after  dinner?  I  said,  I  will  go  to 
see  the  ruins;  they  will  be  looking  their  best  after  sunset, 
I  interjected,  catching  something  of  my  host's  flippancy. 

But  dinner  was  prolonged  with  conversation  until  the 
moon  rose,  and  then,  remembering  a  phrase  of  Balzac's, 
"In  the  moonlight  the  Place  de  la  Bourse  is  a  dream  of 
old  Greece,"  I  said  to  myself:  ruins  are  best  by  moon- 
light. But  my  host  continued  to  talk  on  many  subjects 
till  long  after  midnight,  and  the  moon  was  waning  and 
The  Irish  Times  was  printing  when  I  reached  the  Liffey 
and  saw  the  great  skeleton  fagades  lifting  themselves  up 
in  the  night. 

Many  of  the  buildings,  the  Imperial  Hotel  and  the 
Post  Office,  appeared  at  first  sight  uninjured,  but  at 
second  sight  it  was  plain  that  they  were  but  empty  shells. 
I  shall  have,  I  said,  to  wait  for  the  sunrise  to  see  these 
ruins.  At  present  they  are  but  phantoms,  a  city  that 
has  passed  away — shapeless  mounds  that  might  be  of 
Babylon.  I  shall  have  to  wait  for  another  hour  for  some 
traces  of  Dublin  to  appear,  ruined  portico  or  broken 
column,  which?  But  martial  law  still  prevails,  I  con- 
tinued, and  arrest,  though  it  lasts  but  a  minute,  is  un- 
pleasant. I  will  adjourn  to  the  office  of  The  Irish  Times 
and  write  paragraphs  till  dawn;  and  though  rubble  heaps 
afford  but  slight  pasture  for  the  picturesque  pen,  it  may 
be  that  I  shall  discover  something.  Nature  is  so  various 
that  I  cannot  fail  to  find  something  unexpected  and 
significant  if  I  search  long  enough.  Even  if  the  space  in 
to-morrow's  paper  be  filled  he  might  like  an  article — on 
what?  I  asked  myself.  And  in  the  hope  that  a  subject 
would  come  into  my  mind  while  talking  I  went  upstairs 
unabashed   (the  editors  of  Irish  papers  receive  visitors 


n        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

while  waiting  for  proofs),  and  it  was  not  till  one  o'clock 
that  I  began  to  notice  that  the  editor  began  to  weary  of 
conversation.  My  proofs  are  late  to-night,  he  said,  but 
they  cannot  be  long  delayed;  and  the  finest  ruins  are  be- 
yond Rutland  Square.  You  might  walk  around  that  way; 
and  his  last  advice  to  me  was  to  look  out  for  a  building 
that  had  been  shelled  near  Amiens  Street  Station. 

Ten  minutes'  walk  took  me  there.  But  how  am  I  to 
describe  picturesquely  a  wall  twenty  feet  high  by  forty 
feet  long  with  a  hole  in  it?  I  asked  myself,  and  returned 
to  Henry  Street  wondering  what  the  descriptive  reporters 
attached  to  the  newspapers  had  written  about  the  ruins. 
They  can  describe  anything,  even  a  boat  race,  I  said; 
it's  their  business.  And  it  was  while  thinking  about 
their  art  and  Marius  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage  that 
I  escaped  as  by  a  miracle  from  falling  into  a  cellar  in 
which  I  should  certainly  have  died,  discovered  by  my 
stench  at  the  end  of  a  week,  and  whoever  found  me 
would  go  back  to  the  office  of  the  Times  with  excellent 
copy.  A  lugubrious  story  truly  of  a  reporter  who  died 
in  a  cellar  in  Henry  Street,  and  one  that  soon  changed 
to  a  story  of  a  reporter  who  committed  suicide  amid 
the  ruins  because  he  could  not  describe  them.  Not 
being  able  to  produce  copy  he  became  copy,  I  said, 
and  I'm  minded  to  follow  his  example,  for  have  I  not 
promised  to  write  an  article  and  up  to  the  present  have 
discovered  only  a  strip  of  wall-paper  hanging  from  a  ruined 
wall  which  I  could  have  seen  in  London  any  day :  pathetic, 
no  doubt,  but  poor  pasturage  for  the  picturesque  pen. 
All  the  same,  the  mantelpiece  up  above  is  a  fine  specimen; 
and  with  much  literary  sympathy  I  fell  to  examining  a 
broken  mantelpiece  over  which  hung  an  overmantel,  its 
mirror  still  intact  and  a  piece  of  ornamental  crockery 
and  a  little  French  clock  still  upon  its  shelves.  Here 
is  my  symbol,  I  said,  somewhat  commonplace,  but  the 
best  I  shall  find.     A  pleasant  home,  no  doubt  it  once  was, 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        13 

and  in  my  imagination  I  saw  a  family  collected  round  the 
fender  after  the  evening  meal,  mother  reading  a  tale 
from  a  popular  magazine  to  the  children,  the  cat  purring 
upon  her  knees.  A  somewhat  commonplace  subject  for 
an  article,  I  said,  but  one  that  will  please  the  readers 
of  The  Irish  Times.  A  plaintive  "Miaw"  reached  me, 
and  a  beautiful  black  Persian  cat  appeared  by  the  fire- 
place. A  cat  is  almost  articulate,  and  Tom  asked  me 
to  explain  to  him  the  meaning  of  all  this  ruin.  He  has 
found  his  old  fireplace,  I  said,  and  tried  to  entice  him; 
but,  though  pleased  to  see  me,  he  would  not  be  persuaded 
to  leave  what  remained  of  the  hearth  on  which  he  had 
spent  so  many  pleasant  hours,  and  pondering  on  his  faith- 
fulness and  his  beauty  I  continued  my  search  among  the 
ruins,  meeting  cats  everywhere,  all  seeking  their  lost 
homes  among  the  ashes  and  all  unable  to  comprehend 
the  misfortune  that  had  befallen  them.  It  is  true  that 
the  cats  suffer  vaguely,  but  suffering  is  not  less  because 
it  is  vague,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  the  early  ages 
of  the  world,  shall  we  say  twenty  thousand  years  before 
Pompeii  and  Herculaneum,  men  groped  and  suffered 
blindly  amid  incomprehensible  earthquakes  seeking  their 
lost  homes,  just  like  the  cats  in  Henry  Street.  We  are  part 
and  parcel  of  the  same  original  substance,  I  said,  and 
then  my  thoughts  breaking  off  suddenly,  I  began  to 
rejoice  in  Nature's  unexpectedness  and  fecundity.  She 
is  never  commonplace  in  her  stories,  we  have  only  to  go 
to  her  to  be  original,  I  muttered,  as  I  returned  through 
the  silent  streets.  I  could  have  imagined  everything  else, 
the  wall-paper,  the  overmantel,  and  the  French  clock, 
but  not  the  cats  seeking  for  their  lost  hearths,  nor  is 
it  likely  that  Turgenieff  could,  Balzac  still  less. 


14        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


CHAPTER  4. 

A  WEEK  goes  by  easily  amid  renewals  of  friendship, 
and  verifications  of  the  people  of  "Hail  and  Fare  well," 
one  after  the  other — a  roll-call  in  fact,  all  answering  their 
names  except  Bailey  and  Yeats;  Bailey  died  a  few  months 
ago  of  a  gun-shot  wound,  and  already  Dublin  society  has 
forgotten  him.  His  gift  was  atmosphere.  He  brought 
an  atmosphere  of  happiness  into  the  room;  a  precious 
gift  truly  for  the  conduct  of  life,  but  one  so  easily  ap- 
preciated that  it  is  forgotten  as  easily  as  the  passage  of  a 
pleasant  breeze  coming  and  going  in  and  out  of  a  garden. 
Yeats  now  lives,  or  is  going  to  live,  in  a  ruined  castle  in 
Galway,  for  the  sake  of  the  spectres — such  is  the  report, 
which,  however  untrue,  is  an  acceptable  explanation  of  his 
strange  choice  of  dwelling — himself  having  become  a  myth 
from  too  long  brooding  on  myths,  and  myths  being,  if  not 
spectres,  at  least  of  the  same  kin.  Another  report  avers 
that  his  retirement  may  be  attributed  to  his  belief  that 
the  poet  should  apply  himself  as  soon  as  his  poetry  is 
written  to  the  weaving  of  a  "Poetic  Personality."  And 
at  once  the  ruined  castle  rises  before  our  eyes,  for  has  it 
not  been  said  that  a  poet  must  live  in  a  cabin  or  a  castle, 
these  two  dwellings  representing  the  poles  of  humanity? 
Yeats'  belief  in  his  relationship  to  the  Duke  of  Ormond 
precludes  the  cabin,  and  piecing  the  two  reports,  or  shall 
we  say  the  two  myths,  together,  we  seem  to  be  justified  in 
imagining  him  in  the  vaulted  hall  of  the  castle  of  Bally  lee 
— weaving  the  myths  that  will  preserve  his  works  when  all 
life  has  departed  from  them,  passing  the  shuttle  to  and 
fro,  weaving  industriously,  Lady  Gregory  standing  by, 
distaff  in  hand. 

And  these  twain  visionaries  recall  my  old  friend,  the 
Comte  Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam,  for  Villiers  believed  himself 
to  be  the  heir  to  the  great  name,  and  the  conviction  strikes 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        15 

root  immediately  that  he  would  have  welcomed  Yeats  as 
a  dream  for  himself  or  as  a  subject  of  a  story  for  others, 
summarising  our  poet  in  some  melancholy  and  ornate 
phrase  spoken  by  Yeats  as  he  rises  from  the  loom  of  poetic 
personality  one  sultry  summer  afternoon  before  going 
down  to  Coole.  Though  my  heart  be  empty  of  all  else, 
he  would  say,  his  eyes  wandering  over  the  escutcheoned 
walls  (escutcheoned  in  his  imagination),  though  my  heart 
be  empty  of  all  else,  I  bear  in  it  at  least  the  sterile  glory 
of  many  forgotten  dukes. 


CHAPTER  5. 

YOU  are  going  by  the  Limited  Mail,  sir?  the  porter 
asked  overnight,  and  I  answered  that  I  hoped  there 
would  be  in  me  the  needful  strength  of  will  to  turn  out  of 
bed  before  six;  but  it  was  doubtful.  No  fear  of  that,  sir, 
the  porter  replied;  I'll  get  you  up,  and  if  you  leave  here  at 
twenty  minutes  to  seven  you'll  be  in  time.  But  it  will  be 
as  well  to  order  the  car  for  half -past  six;  these  carmen 
are  always  late  and  the  horses  on  the  night  shift  are  a 
sorry  lot,  hardly  able  to  pull  the  cars  behind  them. 

There'll  be  neither  breakfast  nor  bath,  I  murmured, 
and  went  to  my  room  dreading  the  mental  struggle  that 
would  befall  me  in  the  morning. 

Nor  was  it  a  less  tough  one  than  I  had  imagined  it,  and 
had  not  the  porter  stood  over  my  bed  I  should  have  slept 
for  hours.  My  father  was  the  same  before  me,  one  to 
whom  an  early  rise  was  intolerable,  only  to  see  a  horse 
gallop  could  he  manage  it. 

At  last  I  threw  my  legs  out  of  bed  and  began  to  seek 
my  clothes.  The  worst  moment  is  over,  I  said,  and  at 
seven  minutes  past  the  half -hour  a  car  arrived  drawn  by  a 
horse  that  only  a  goat-herd  could  distinguish  from  a  goat; 


16        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

and  seeing  that  his  horse,  for  it  was  one,  did  not  inspire 
belief  in  his  power  to  reach  the  station  in  time,  the  driver 
began  to  condone  his  appearance,  saying  it  was  the  worst 
part  of  him,  and  amid  many  assurances  we  drove  away, 
leaving  the  last  glimpse  of  the  flowering  green  behind  us 
when  we  turned  into  Grafton  Street,  a  desert  as  all  streets 
are  at  seven  in  the  morning.  But  the  emptiness  of  Grafton 
Street  surprises  us  more  than  the  emptiness  of  any  other 
street,  so  accustomed  are  we  to  see  it  filled  with  thronging 
passengers.  Its  faint  descent  tried  the  power  of  the  horse 
to  keep  back  the  car,  and  so  feeble  were  his  totterings 
that  I  began  to  fear  we  should  miss  the  train,  but  forgot 
my  fears  as  soon  as  we  emerged  from  its  narrowness,  for 
the  beauty  of  the  day  appeared  in  a  delightful  blueness 
overhead  and  in  shadows  falling  westward  from  the 
pillared  porticoes  of  the  noble  bank.  How  delightful  it 
will  be  in  Kildare,  I  said  to  myself,  if  we  catch  the  train, 
and  to  the  jarvey,  that  no  more  than  a  dozen  minutes 
remained  before  the  train  started. 

We'll  be  there  in  time,  he  said,  and  I  contemplated 
once  more  the  destruction  of  many  a  back-yard.  A  more 
than  usually  foolish  revolution,  I  muttered;  truly  Catholic, 
I  added,  and  was  about  to  beg  the  jarvey  not  to  whip  his 
horse  so  cruelly,  but  before  the  words  could  be  spoken 
the  thought  crossed  my  mind  that  if  he  did  not  urge  his 
heavily  laden  horse  up  the  hill-side  I  should  be  confronted 
to-morrow  with  the  necessity  of  rising  at  six.  It  behooves 
him  to  suffer,  I  said.  We  suffer  differently,  but  we  all 
suffer.  It  is  my  suffering  to  witness  his;  he  will  forget 
but  I  shall  remember;  and  as  soon  as  we  arrive  at  the 
station  I  applied  myself  to  the  elucidation  of  many 
irrelevant  matters  connected  with  my  journey  westward, 
and  helped  by  the  almost  impenetrable  dullness  of  the 
railway  porter  succeeded  in  ridding  myself  of  all  memory 
of  the  scarecrow  horse.  But  no  sooner  had  I  comfortably 
settled  myself  in  a  seat  than  his  pitifulness  reappeared, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        17 

and  remained  with  me  till  the  train  had  rolled  some  little 
distance  into  the  country,  and  it  might  have  remained 
with  me  all  the  way  to  Mullingar  if  a  sudden  memory 
of  the  beautiful  flowering  country  we  should  soon  be 
passing  through  had  not  blotted  out  his  unwelcome 
image.  After  all,  I  said,  we  arrived,  and  by  getting  me  to 
the  station  he  achieved  his  destiny;  and  with  the  same 
industry  that  he  applied  himself  to  his,  let  me  apply 
myself  to  mine,  which  is  clearly  to  recall  the  city  as  it 
was  all  last  week  engarlanded  with  chestnut,  laburnum 
and  lilac  bloom;  yes,  and  with  hawthorn  trees  leaning 
over  every  railing.  White,  pink  and  rose  hawthorn,  one 
as  beautiful  as  the  other,  I  continued,  and  fell  to  thinking 
how  last  year  travelling  through  the  same  country  it  had 
pleased  me  to  imagine  myself  in  the  part  of  Paris!  with 
this  difference,  that  my  trouble  was  not  to  discriminate 
between  three  beautiful  women,  but  three  beautiful 
trees — a  more  difficult  task  than  the  one  accomplished  on 
Mount  Ida.  .  .  .  The  white  may  be  the  beautifulest,  but 
which  smells  the  sweeter,  the  pink  or  the  rose?  I  asked 
myself.  And  mile  after  mile  of  hawthorn  bloom  passed 
by  unobserved,  the  reality  blotted  out  by  the  potent  re- 
membrance of  the  hawthorns  that  had  bloomed  ten  years 
ago  in  my  garden  in  Ely  Place.  The  blooms  in  memory 
are  always  sweeter  than  the  blooms  on  the  bough,  I  said; 
and  on  awaking  fully  from  my  meditation,  I  saw. 

A  country  passing  by  me  and  in  such  incomparable 
bloom  that  it  seemed  like  madness.  The  madness  of 
May,  I  said,  for  the  6th  of  June  is  as  much  May  as  June, 
and  on  this  remark  or  aphorism,  whichever  it  may  be,  my 
thoughts  fled  away  like  the  cuckoo  at  the  end  of  June. 
Whither  they  went  I  know  not,  nor  do  I  know  whither 
the  cuckoo  goes  or  the  salmon,  only  that  bird  and  fish 
return,  and  that  our  thoughts  return  too,  sometimes  bear- 
ing in  their  beaks  new  thoughts,  if  thoughts  have  beaks, 
and  who  will  say  they  have  not,  and  sharp  claws. 


18        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

And  presently  my  thought  of  May  returned,  bearing 
in  its  beak  a  memory  of  Rossetti:  one  from  the  Blessed 
Damozel,  the  lady  who  leaned  out  of  heaven  with  three 
lilies  lying  asleep  along  her  bended  arm — a  gift  for  the 
Virgin.  A  better  gift  for  the  Virgin  would  have  been  a 
wreath  of  hawthorn,  one  that  would  have  reminded  her 
more  intimately  of  the  beauty  of  earth  than  the  lilies. 
An  oversight  on  the  part  of  Rossetti.  .  .  .  But,  no,  there 
are  no  hawthorns  in  ruined  Galilee,  and  as  likely  as 
not  that  is  why  everybody  was  so  discontented  with  his 
life  in  Galilee  and  failed  to  understand  that  our  life  is 
beautiful  because  it  is  transitory,  and  that  the  joys  of 
heaven  would  weary  us  before  we  had  been  listening  to 
sonatas  for  ten  thousand  years.  But  if  there  had  been 
hawthorn  in  Galilee  all  might  have  been  different,  March 
in  Galilee  is  May  in  England  and  had  there  been  haw- 
thorn in  Galilee  I  should  have  noticed  it  at  once. 

And  then,  a  little  cross  with  myself  for  thinking  of 
Galilee,  a  country  that  is  responsible  for  more  wasted 
time  than  any  other,  I  said :  the  white,  no  doubt,  is  more 
beautiful  than  the  pink,  and  yet  the  pink  tree  that  has 
just  fled  past  is  extraordinarily  beautiful.  I  remember 
it  from  last  year,  and  in  my  memory  it  exhales  a  more 
subtle  scent  than  perhaps  the  white.  But  am  I  sure  that 
this  preference  is  not  a  prejudice  sprung  from  the  fact 
that  a  large  tree  of  pink  grew  in  my  garden  when  I  lived 
in  Upper  Ely  Place?  And  once  again  I  fell  to  thinking  of 
the  hawthorns  that  had  bloomed  for  me  ten  years  ago  in 
my  garden.  The  blooms  of  y ester  year  haunt  us,  I  cried, 
and  awaking  suddenly  I  saw  a  country  passing,  beautiful  as 
antiquity.     And  my  thoughts  turning  to  Thessaly  I  said: 

Thessaly  is  too  hot  in  June.  Its  nymphs  and  fauns,  and 
Silenus,  should  migrate  here  at  the  end  of  April  and  tempt 
the  druids  of  Maynooth  out  of  their  celibacy;  and  then, 
imagination  taking  the  place  of  reason  once  again,  I 
began  to  believe  that  a  nymph  would  reveal  herself  to  me 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        19 

if  I  were  to  keep  my  thoughts  fixed  on  those  dim  sunny 
fields  passing  by,  and  sure  enough  I  very  soon  espied  one 
reclining  in  a  drift  of  haze  that  curled  and  went  out 
along  the  edge  of  a  pond. 

Goddess  or  cloud,  God  knows  which,  I  cried,  and  asked 
myself  if  I  should  allow  the  occasion  to  pass  without  stop- 
ping the  train  to  inquire,  for  to  let  such  an  occasion  pass 
without  inquiry,  I  meditated,  would  be  folly  surely.  But, 
alas,  at  the  moment  of  starting  to  my  feet  to  pull  the  cord 
of  communication  I  foresaw  the  guard's  face  and  the  faces 
of  many  passengers  agleam  with  various  anger  at  the 
only  worthy  reason  ever  given  by  a  passenger  for  the 
stopping  of  an  express  train — that  he  had  been  vouchsafed 
a  glimpse  of  a  goddess  in  a  garment  of  drifting  haze.  And 
almost  as  distinctly  as  the  altercation  between  me  and 
the  guard,  the  scene  in  the  police  court  appeared  to  me, 
with  myself  in  the  dock  pleading  justification  for  my 
action,  saying,  and  saying  well,  if  a  man  may  not  stop 
the  Limited  Mail  to  see  goddesses  in  drifting  haze,  for 
what  may  he  stop  the  train?  A  belief  in  goddesses  being 
essential  for  the  maintenance  of  the  world.  If  that  were 
so  the  world  would  have  ended  long  ago,  his  Worship  raps 
out.  But  your  Worship  saw  a  goddess  in  the  haze.  Never 
saw  such  a  thing  in  my  life,  his  Worship  answers.  But  I 
thought  that  your  Worship  married  beautiful  Miss  Lynch 
from  Partry.  At  which  remark  a  cloud  gathers  in  his 
Worship's  face,  and  he  declares  that  I  am  wasting  the 
time  of  the  Court,  but  not  before  I  succeed  in  interject- 
ing: your  vision  vanished  like  mine,  and  am  I  to  under- 
stand that  because  yours  endured  a  little  longer  than 
mine  I  am  to  be  condemned  to  the  cells  while  you  go 
scot  free? 

Forty  shillings  or  a  month,  the  magistrate  cries,  inwardly 
pleased  but  unable  to  escape  from  the  toils  of  the  law. 

And  in  such  characteristic  Irish  fashion  the  adventure 
would  have  ended:  forty  shillings  or  a  month!     But  forty 


20        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

shillings  have  often  been  wasted  on  things  as  unimportant 
as  the  stopping  of  a  train  to  see  a  goddess.  My  thought 
melted  into  a  dream  of  the  subsequent  assemblage  of  the 
passengers,  many  of  whom  have  been  prone  to  search  the 
hedge-rows.  Too  late,  too  late,  I  cried;  my  goddess  is 
now  many  hundred  yards  behind  me  .  .  .  drunken  up 
perchance  by  the  sun. 

As  if  to  console  me,  a  poem  arose  out  of  my  very  legiti- 
mate despondency,  and  in  it  Pan  as  he  went  down  the  Vale 
of  Msenalus  singing  pursues  a  maiden  and  discovers  a  flute 
in  one  of  the  reeds  into  which  he  could  pour  his  grief; 
and  then  I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  name  Maenalus,  but 
Maenalus  is  not  a  more  beautiful  name  than  Avoca;  Greece 
lacks  our  incomparable  haze — the  only  fitting  garment 
for  a  goddess  if  she  be  not  wholly  ungarmented.  Ah! 
if  it  were  not  for  our  incurable  love  of  druids,  Ireland 
would  be  teeming  with  nymphs  and  dryads.  The  last 
one  was  Etain,  and  we  are  told  that  the  sweetness  of 
her  legs  pierced  one  of  our  elder  poets  to  the  heart,  and 
Mary  whom  we  received  in  exchange  has  no  legs,  being 
a  virgin,  or  if  she  had  any,  nobody  saw  them,  not  even 
her  husband,  so  does  a  majority  in  this  county  aver, 
whereas  the  majority  in  the  county  I  have  come  from 
says  he  did.  An  important  question  truly  and  one  not 
less  difficult  to  decide  than  the  hawthorn. 


CHAPTER  6. 

I  SUPPOSE  the  climate  is  answerable  for  the  virginity 
of  our  goddess,  I  said  to  myself,  and  the  words  might 
have  given  rise  to  some  pleasant  fancies  if  my  eyes  had 
not  caught  sight  of  a  man  in  gaiters  following  a  path 
through  a  field  in  which  a  long  herd  stood  up  to  their 
knees  in  buttercups:  one  of  our  immemorial  herdsmen, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        21 

I  said,  and  some  thought  concerning  him  expressed  in 
Salve  came  upon  me  suddenly,  and  for  a  long  time  I  sat 
chewing  the  cud  of  it,  that  the  Irish  herdsman  divined 
the  steak  in  the  bullock's  rump  with  the  same  intuitive 
perception  as  the  Greek  did  the  statue  in  the  marble. 
A  long  passage  followed,  one  of  my  best,  the  point  of  it 
being  that  the  Irish  should  be  content  with  having  pro- 
duced the  finest  herdsmen  in  the  world.  And  the  witticism 
was  continued  into  the  sauce,  for  though  the  Irish  had 
discovered  the  steak  the  sauce  Bernaise  was  beyond  the 
genius  of  the  race. 

A  truly  admirable  appreciation  of  one's  own  country 
and  countrymen,  and  after  having  enjoyed  it  I  cannot  do 
else  than  lose  myself  in  admiration  of  the  man's  measured 
gait,  and  approve  his  project,  which  doubtless  was  to 
change  the  pasture  of  his  herds.  And  having  chosen  the 
field  in  which  his  cattle  are  to  graze,  I  said,  he  will  stand 
leaning  over  a  gate  till  dinner-time,  an  unending  exem- 
plar of  Ireland.  He  was  in  the  beginning  and  ever 
shall  be,  world  without  end.  A  race,  I  continued,  that 
does  not  change;  and  at  that  moment  an  indolent  priest 
was  being  driven  swiftly  along  a  pleasant  road  bending 
round  a  hill-side,  and  I  added:  he,  too,  is  an  exemplar 
of  the  Irish  race  as  it  always  was  and  always  will  be, 
world  without  end.  And  whither  goes  he?  To  a  con- 
vent to  shrive  some  helpless  nuns,  or  is  he  on  his  way 
to  Maynooth,  where  the  meals  are  in  accordance  with 
long  ecclesiastical  usage;  or  to  some  rich  farmer's  house 
chosen  by  him  for  stations? 

The  priest  to  his  nuns  and  I  to  my  reveries  in  a  train 
that  jolts  and  hurtles  along  at  a  fine  rate  by  the  side  of 
an  old  canal  full  of  reeds  and  rushes.  We  passed  a  lock- 
house  seemingly  in  ruins.  MacCan,  I  said,  believed  in 
the  revival  of  the  waterways,  but  since  his  death  the 
canals  have  fallen  into  idleness,  which  is  a  pity,  for  the 
life  of  the  canal  is  in  keeping  with  our  unaccentuated 


22        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

climate.  But  the  ruin  of  the  canal  is  not  complete,  I 
cried;  for  yonder  comes  a  horse  urged  forward  by  a 
sapling  freshly  torn  from  the  hedge.  In  Ireland  nothing 
disappears,  all  is  that  ever  was;  and  pleased  with  the 
raciness  of  my  thoughts,  my  eyes  return  to  the  landscape. 
England,  I  said,  does  not  fade  out  of  Ireland  until  we 
reach  Mullingar,  and  after  leaving  Mullingar  behind  us 
we  pass  many  spots  almost  undistinguishable  from  English 
scenery,  for  wherever  the  land  rises  out  of  bog  rich  fields 
begin  and  the  trees  emerge  like  vapours.  Corot  should 
have  painted  an  Ireland.  But  why  should  his  name  have 
come  into  my  mind,  for  I  am  weary  of  spinnage  and 
vapour. 

A  lonely  country,  sir.  The  words  startled  me,  and  I 
could  only  answer  my  fellow-traveller:  yes,  sir,  a  lonely 
country.  But  gathering  from  his  face  that  he  seemed  to 
expect  something  more  from  me  than  a  mere  repetition 
of  the  words  he  used,  I  roused  into  some  sort  of  mental 
activity.  The  cattle  aren't  lonely;  they're  always  in 
company  like  the  monks  and  the  nuns,  I  said,  for  in 
Ireland  the  first  thought  in  a  railway  carriage  is — am  I 
travelling  with  a  Protestant  or  a  Catholic?  His  smile 
told  me  he  was  a  Protestant,  and  from  his  speech  and 
appearance  I  began  to  guess  a  landlord's  agent,  a  man 
between  fifty  and  sixty,  tall  and  lean,  reminding  me  of 
Don  Quixote,  and  the  Don's  appearance  is  but  the  symbol 
of  the  Don's  credulous  soul;  whosoever  has  been  given 
the  body  has  received  the  soul,  or  some  part  of  it;  and  it 
was  therefore  grateful  to  me  to  hear  before  we  reached 
Mullingar  that  he,  too,  had  projects  for  the  advancement 
of  Ireland,  all  of  which  I  had  heard  before,  but  which  he 
seemed  to  exalt  a  little  in  the  telling.  And  giving  my 
ear  to  him  I  heard  again  the  project  for  the  establishment 
of  factories  for  the  compression  of  peat,  which  when  com- 
pressed would  yield  as  much  heat  as  coal;  with  compressed 
fuel  Ireland  will  become  a  great  industrial  nation,  he  said, 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        23 

and  I  answered  that  Ireland  is  so  winning  among  her  ruins 
that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  reform  her.  She  has  rejected  so 
many  reformations  that  it  would  be  a  pity  if  she  now — I 
was  going  to  say  if  she  put  off  her  Catholic  rags  and 
appeared  in  clean  Pauline  linen;  but  a  cloud  seemed  to 
gather  in  my  fellow-traveller's  face,  and  instead  of  con- 
tinuing my  native  protestantism,  with  a  deft  turn  of  words 
I  whisked  the  conversation  back  to  economic  difficulties 
and  professed  sympathy  with  the  building  of  piers,  the 
laying  down  of  oyster  beds  and  a  tunnel  under  the  sea 
uniting  Scotland  with  Ireland.  Portpatrick  and  Gal  way, 
I  said,  could  be  connected  by  a  line  of  railway  and  the 
bay  thereby  turned  into  a  great  Transatlantic  port.  A 
big  job,  he  said.  True,  quite  true,  I  answered,  but  realis- 
able in  the  end.  It  might,  however,  be  better  to  begin 
by  setting  up  a  bacon  factory  in  Castlebar. 

Every  pig  breeder,  he  said,  could  take  a  ten-pound 
share,  and  in  Mayo,  he  continued,  every  cottager  owns  a 
pig.  But  can  cottagers  afford  a  ten-pound  share?  I 
interjected;  and  will  you  guarantee  a  minimum  price  for 
the  pigs?  and  of  all  is  the  Mayo  pig  the  kind  of  pig  that 
produces  the  London  rasher? 

My  questions  seemed  to  vex  him,  and  we  might  not 
have  spoken  again  during  the  journey  had  it  not  been  for 
the  rashers.  It  was  their  succulence  that  prompted  him 
to  address  me  again  on  the  advantage  a  bacon  factory 
would  be  to  Castlebar  and  to  Mayo  generally,  and 
wishing  to  hear  his  views  I  assumed  so  pleasant  an  air 
of  acquiescence  that  before  long  the  bacon  factory  was 
lost  sight  of  and  we  were  talking  of  the  great  changes 
that  had  come  over  the  country  since  we  were  young 
men. 

In  former  times,  my  traveller  said,  there  was  the  big 
house,  and  the  villagers  always  coming  and  going  on  some 
errand  or  another;  the  women  coming  up  at  midday  with 
their  husbands'  and  sons'  dinners.     A  poor  one,  it  is  true, 


U        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

five  or  six  potatoes  tied  up  in  a  cloth,  and  a  noggin  of 
buttermilk  which  they  would  get  from  the  dairy-maid. 
But  in  those  days  the  people  were  contented  with  very 
little,  they  never  tasted  meat  but  once  a  year  and  that 
at  Christmas  time,  which  they  boiled  in  a  pot,  the 
only  knowledge  of  cooking  they  knew.  When  the 
potatoes  rotted  in  the  famine  years,  the  people  had 
nothing,  there  never  having  been  any  factories  for  the 
making  of  cheese  in  Ireland.  For  some  reason  or  another 
the  Irish  are  not  cheese  eaters.  The  Welsh,  I  believe, 
are,  and  work  all  day  nourishing  themselves  from  time  to 
time  with  a  bite  of  cheese  and  a  sup  of  beer.  And  then 
the  Welsh  are  dissenters  and  radicals,  whereas  the  villagers 
here  are  Catholic  and  like  the  big  house  for  the  hum  of 
life  always  going  on:  the  smithy  with  its  clanging  anvil 
and  snoring  bellows;  the  carpenter's  shop,  its  threshold 
heaped  with  shavings — Micky  Murphy  in  the  background 
making  a  door  or  a  window  sash,  and  more  ready  than  the 
smith  himself  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  whosoever 
might  have  a  moment  to  spare.  And  I  mustn't  forget 
the  sawyers,  one  of  them  in  the  pit  and  the  other  above 
him,  sawing  some  balks  of  timber  for  Micky  Murphy,  who 
wanted  timber  for  gates  and  door-posts.  Always  some- 
thing going  on,  you  see.  And  as  likely  as  not  some  of  the 
house  servants  had  come  up  from  the  village:  their 
fathers  and  mothers  and  their  sisters  and  brothers  were 
all  welcome.  And  then  there  was  the  landlord  hanging 
about  the  stable-yard  with  a  couple  of  setters  at  his  heels, 
and  he  always  willing  to  speak  to  the  tenants  on  Saturdays, 
hearing  all  their  complaints,  and  when  they  had  no 
complaints,  which  very  often  happened,  they  came  up 
just  for  the  sake  of  a  talk.  You  see  with  all  those  things 
going  on  the  country  was  never  lonely,  but  now  all  I  am 
telling  you  about  has  passed  away  and  the  people  are 
beginning  to  feel  the  loneliness  of  the  country  very  sore 
upon  them. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        25 

But  it  was  the  tenants  who  wished  to  get  rid  of  the 
landlords,  I  interjected.  Yes,  that  is  so,  my  friend  replied, 
but  you  see  the  rents  in  former  times  were  too  high  and 
they  couldn't  pay  them.  But  they'd  like  to  have  their 
landlords  back  again,  with  smaller  rents,  mind  you.  Yes, 
they  would  and  leppin'.  They'd  sooner  be  bringing  up 
their  notes  as  in  old  times  to  the  big  house  than  sending 
them  to  the  Board,  which  is  a  harder  task-master  than 
ever  Clanricarde  was,  and  altogether  without  considera- 
tion of  special  cases  and  circumstances.  The  way  it  is 
now  is  that  the  tenant  just  pays  and  if  he  fails  to  pay  he 
goes,  eviction  in  Ireland  being  easier  than  ever  it  was, 
without  police  and  sub-sheriff.  For  you  see  if  the  Bishops 
agree,  and  there  are  a  dozen  on  the  Board,  that  a  man 
must  be  put  out,  out  he  is  put,  for  there  isn't  a  man  in 
Ireland  that  would  dare  to  raise  his  voice  against  a 
Bishop.  Out  he  goes  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  Well, 
all  that  is  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  the  Irish  people,  who 
have  no  taste  for  offices  and  clerks  and  routine  work,  and 
who  like  to  know  with  whom  they  are  dealing,  as  they 
have  always  done,  and  as  their  fathers  before  them:  a 
clannish  people,  sir,  who  have  not  yet  forgotten  the 
chieftain  they  have  gone  to  battle  for.  As  I  was  saying  to 
you,  sir,  the  people  miss  the  hum  of  life  that  was  always 
going  on  around  the  old  country  houses.  In  exchange 
they've  got  the  land. 

Well,  a  very  fair  exchange,  I  interjected.  But  how 
long  will  they  keep  the  land?  Isn't  it  always  passing 
from  them  again  and  again,  for  the  Irish  are  a  religious 
people  and  every  man  will  leave  a  sum  of  money  to  the 
priest  to  say  masses  for  his  soul  to  keep  it  out  of  purgatory, 
though  this  much  must  be  said,  it  isn't  the  peasant  class 
that  gives  away  to  the  priest  but  the  small  shopkeeping 
class;  and  the  land  it  has  gotten  from  the  peasant  goes 
in  masses  for  the  repose  of  souls. 

The  news  that  the  land  of  Ireland  had  been  wrenched 


26        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

from  the  landlords  with  so  much  trouble  and  was  passing 
into  the  hands  of  the  clergy  interested  me  deeply,  putting 
into  my  mind  the  thought  that  a  third  of  the  land  of 
England  was  Church  property  in  Reformation  times.  It 
was,  I  said,  the  riches  of  the  clergy  that  had  set  the 
people  saying — the  kingdom  of  heaven  may  be  for  us, 
but  the  kingdom  of  earth  is  for  them.  On  that  they 
began  reading  the  Gospels,  and  it  would  be  a  wonderful 
thing  surely  if  the  avarice  of  the  clergy  turned  the  Irish 
into  Protestants,  the  same  as  it  did  the  English.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  what  Ireland  needs  is  a  new  religion,  and  I  pray 
that  she  may  get  one.  Which?  It  matters  not,  but  let 
her  get  one  quickly,  I  muttered,  and  almost  immediately 
after  my  traveller's  voice  awoke  me  from  my  reverie,  and 
the  truth  became  apparent  that  all  the  while  I  had  been 
dreaming  he  had  been  telling  a  story. 

It  behooved  me  to  reconstruct  the  first  half  from  the 
beginning,  for  it  was  beyond  my  courage  to  say :  what  you 
told  me  about  the  passing  away  of  the  Irish  land  from  the 
tenants  to  the  clergy  interested  me  so  profoundly  that  I 
missed  a  good  deal  of  the  story  you  are  telling !  would  you 
be  kind  enough  to  repeat  it  all  over  again?  He  might 
very  well  answer  my  request:  if  you  didn't  care  to  listen 
you  must  go  without,  and  return  to  his  paper,  leaving 
me  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  landscape  regretting 
I  had  entered  into  conversation  with  him.  All  the  same, 
I  said,  it  was  stupid  of  me  to  miss  the  beginning  of  his 
story;  and  it  will  be  more  stupid  still  if  I  do  not  give  my 
ears  at  once  to  what  he  is  telling  about  Joseph  Appley. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        27 


CHAPTER  7. 

I'M  sure  I  heard  him  say  that  Joseph  Appley  was  from 
Wiltshire,  my  fellow-traveller  repeated,  and  I  tried  to 
look  as  if  the  evidence  pointed  to  Wiltshire.  I  have  often 
heard  Sir  Hugh  say  that  he  picked  him  up  in  Wiltshire. 
Joseph  was  a  boy  at  the  time,  he  said,  and  a  boy  is  picked 
very  much  like  a  berry  from  a  hedge,  like  a  berry;  I've 
often  heard  Sir  Hugh  say  that  he  picked  him  from  the 
hedge  and  that  he  became  immediately  after  the  best  cab- 
boy  in  London.  No  matter  what  time  Sir  Hugh  came  out 
of  a  theatre  his  cab  drove  up,  Joseph  on  the  box  ready  to 
hop  off  it  on  the  instant  to  open  the  door  for  Sir  Hugh. 
I  have  heard  Sir  Hugh  say  that  he  couldn't  understand  by 
what  process  of  thought  Joseph  divined  his  movements. 
He  seems  to  know  them  instinctively,  were  Sir  Hugh's 
very  words  to  me. 

But  not  having  heard  the  beginning  of  the  story  I  did 
not  know  who  Sir  Hugh  was;  an  Irish  landlord,  I  judged 
him  to  be  by  inference,  but  could  not  tell  in  what  county 
till  my  fellow-traveller  mentioned  that  Sir  Hugh  had  won 
the  Chester  Cup  with  Tomboy,  and  the  Cambridgeshire 
with  Makebelieve.  You  must  have  heard  of  these  horses, 
he  said,  and  I  answered  that  the  names  recalled  a  past 
time  to  me.  A  few  moments  after  I  remembered  that 
Makebelieve  had  won  the  race  carrying  nine  stone,  which 
was  considered  in  those  days  an  extraordinary  performance 
for  a  three-year-old.  In  those  days,  my  fellow-traveller 
continued,  Sir  Hugh  was  coining  money  on  the  race-course. 
There  was  Chimney  Sweep,  another  great  horse  of  his,  and 
Bayleaf  was  a  fast  mare,  that  won  a  great  deal  of  money, 
and  would  have  won  a  great  deal  more  if  she  had  been 
able  to  get  the  mile,  but  she  always  began  to  stop  at  the 
three-quarters.  Joseph  Appley  was  doing  pretty  well  too, 
not  a  long  way  behind  his  master,  not  farther  than  a  valet 


28        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

should  be;  a  great  pair  surely  in  the  old  days,  looked  out 
for  at  the  cock-pit,  the  prize-ring  and  the  race-course. 
Sir  Hugh  thought  the  world  and  all  of  Joseph  Appley, 
who  began,  as  I  have  told  you,  as  a  cab-boy  and  afterwards 
became  the  best  valet  Sir  Hugh  ever  had  in  his  life.  A 
little  extravagant,  Sir  Hugh  would  say,  Joseph's  maxim 
always  being  that  the  best  was  good  enough  for  me.  Nor 
was  Joseph  quite  satisfied  even  with  the  best;  he'd  always 
tell  the  tradesman:  now  if  you  do  this  extra  well,  I'll 
give  you  a  little  more.  But,  said  my  fellow-traveller,  at 
the  time  I  am  telling  of,  a  little  extravagance  more  or 
less  didn't  matter;  a  few  pounds  one  way  or  the  other 
make  no  difference  when  you're  winning  big  handicaps. 
But  the  day  came  when  Sir  Hugh's  horses  were  not  so 
fast  as  they  used  to  be,  and  perhaps  that  was  the  reason 
he  took  to  himself  a  wife;  her  fortune  paid  some  of  his 
debts  and  allowed  him  to  run  horses  again,  for  at  the  time 
of  his  marriage  he  hadn't  paid  off  his  forfeits:  he  owed 
money  to  Weatherby;  and  after  his  marriage — well,  there 
were  politics,  and  in  those  days  elections  cost  a  lot  of 
money;  Sir  Hugh's  politics  were  not  very  popular,  and  he 
had  to  spend  a  great  deal  in  making  himself  popular: 
the  stud  was  expensive,  and  his  lady  wasn't  content  to 
live  at  Muchloon  alone  while  her  husband  was  away  in 
England.  She  had  people  staying  in  the  house  all  the 
time,  and  with  Joseph  running  the  house  on  the  principle 
that  the  best  of  everything  was  good  enough  for  Muchloon, 
it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  great  hump  of  debt  that  began  to 
rise  up  on  Sir  Hugh's  shoulders.  At  last  the  day  came. 
I'm  going  back  to  London,  Appley,  to  economise.  Joseph 
muttered  (he  always  muttered  a  little)  that  he  had 
never  heard  of  anyone  going  to  London  to  economise 
before.  But  wouldn't  you  like  to  come  to  London  with 
me?  he  asked.  Joseph  said  he  was  too  old.  But  I 
should  have  thought  that  he  would  have  liked  to  return 
to  his  own  country,  I  interjected.     My  fellow-traveller 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        29 

rapped  out  that  England  was  far  behind  Joseph  by  this 
time  and  Ireland  as  far  as  ever  ahead  of  him,  though  he 
had  married  the  lady's  maid,  a  Catholic,  who,  of  course, 
couldn't  marry  him  unless  he  promised  to  bring  up  his 
children  Catholics,  which  he  did;  and  when  the  family 
left  him  alone  in  charge  of  Muchloon  he  made  the  last 
effort  to  become  an  Irishman  that  an  Englishman  can 
make:  he  became  a  Catholic;  but  this  change  didn't  alter 
matters,  for  I  think  he  was  more  English  after  the  change 
than  before  it. 

What  sort  of  woman  was  his  wife?  I  asked,  for 
Joseph's  unfortunate  life  began  to  interest  me.  A  long, 
melancholy  woman,  my  fellow-traveller  answered,  and  her 
daughter  as  lank  and  melancholy  as  herself.  The  son 
was  a  bit  podgy  like  his  father — well-meaning  but  good- 
for-nothing.  I  think  Joseph  was  always  ashamed  of  his 
family,  the  females  especially:  for  I  remember  it  always 
seemed  to  irritate  him  if  his  wife  and  daughter  were  met 
on  the  kitchen  stairs  on  their  way  to  the  pantry.  A  pair 
of  long-faced,  cringing  women  were  the  two  of  them; 
and  the  wife  couldn't  have  been  different  from  the 
daughter;  yet  Joseph  was  mad  to  get  her.  A  strange 
infatuation  that  refusals  couldn't  cool.  Propinquity  I 
suppose  it  was,  she  being  the  lady's  maid  at  Ardath 

and  Sir  Hugh  always  going  to  Ardath Master  after 

mistress  and  valet  after  maid,  I  jerked  in.  Something 
like  that,  my  travelling  companion  answered.  I  don't 
want  to  revive  old  scandals,  but  there  was  a  story  going 
that  one  of  the  ladies  there  loved  Sir  Hugh  in  his  bach- 
elor days,  and  this  I  know  for  certain,  that  she  was  the 
only  untitled  lady  at  the  great  dinner  he  gave  after 
winning  the  Cambridgeshire. 

A  curious  piece  of  evidence  to  adduce,  and  altogether 
insufficient  it  seemed  to  me  to  be;  I  should  have  liked  to 
put  a  few  questions,  but  withheld  them,  afraid  to  lose  the 
tale  of  Joseph  Appley's  misfortunes. 


30        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

Well,  one  of  his  misfortunes  was  this :  you  see  when  Sir 
Hugh  died,  the  heir  was  a  minor  and  wanted  money 
to  spend  on  his  pleasure  in  London,  and  to  get  this  money 
he  applied  to  Joseph,  who  negotiated  a  loan  from  one  of 
the  tenants,  and  when  her  ladyship  heard  that  Joseph 
had  done  this,  she  sent  him  packing  into  the  village,  and 
Joseph  in  an  Irish  village  was  a  sad  spectacle.  Every- 
body liked  Joseph,  but  an  alien  he  was,  never  was  there 
such  an  alien  before  as  Joseph,  and  to  this  day  I'm 
wondering  how  he  endured  the  two  years  he  spent  in 
the  village,  and  he  was  fully  two  years  in  Ballyholly 
before  the  heir,  who  was  then  the  owner  of  Muchloon, 
restored  him  to  his  pantry.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  him 
back  in  it;  he  put  him  back  into  his  pantry,  paid  him 
his  wages,  and  these  were  spent  on  the  farm,  which  was 
a  failure,  for  his  two  sons  were,  as  I  have  said,  helpless 
boys,  wastrels  I  suppose  you'd  call  them.  Some  sort  of 
misfortune  was  always  falling  upon  them,  and  it  was 
always  some  new  misfortune  they  had  to  tell.  The  Irish 
are  very  fond  of  sad  stories,  and  the  Appleys  could  tell 
how  the  mare  and  foal  had  died  on  them,  but  they  always 
forgot  to  tell  they  were  leaving  their  old  father  to  starve  in 
the  great  Georgian  mansion.  Poor  boys,  they  were  starv- 
ing themselves ;  and  it  was  fortunate  that  I  went  there  one 
day  else  Joseph  might  have  died  of  hunger.  What's  the 
matter,  Joseph?  says  I.  You're  looking  thin  and  pale.  I'm 
starving,  sir,  was  all  he  answered.  What  could  I  do  but 
put  my  hand  into  my  pocket  and  give  him  five  pounds? 
But,  on  looking  closer,  his  face  told  me  he  needed  food  at 
once,  and  remembering  I  had  brought  some  luncheon  with 
me  I  sent  down  to  the  stables  for  it  and  shared  it  with  him 
in  his  pantry,  on  the  table  on  which  he  used  to  brush  his 
old  master's  clothes  and  clean  his  boots.  He  wanted  to 
open  up  the  dining-room,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him.  We'll 
just  have  a  snack  together,  said  I,  and  a  talk  about  the 
horses  and  the  spring  handicaps.     Have  you  seen  the 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        31 

weights  for  the  City  and  Suburban?  Joseph  said  he 
hadn't  seen  a  newspaper  for  a  long  time,  and  I  took  one 
out  of  my  pocket,  a  copy  of  The  Sportsman,  a  paper  he 
knew  nothing  about.  Joseph's  paper  was  BelVs  Life.  If 
I  came  into  the  pantry  unexpectedly  he'd  put  the  paper 
into  his  press,  into  his  wonderful  press,  out  of  which 
everything  seemed  to  come.  You  couldn't  ask  Joseph 
for  anything  he  couldn't  produce  from  that  press.  His 
press  was  a  great  wonder  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy;  I  used 
to  try  to  peep  over  his  shoulder  when  he  opened  it.  But 
Joseph  was  careful  never  to  allow  anybody  to  look  into 
his  press.  He'd  just  give  what  he  was  asked  for  and  lock 
the  press  abruptly.  But  one  day  I  espied  a  packet  of 
newspapers,  not  one  packet  but  many,  and  all  tied  up 
with  string  very  carefully.  So  you  keep  the  file,  Joseph, 
if  not  all  of  it  of  the  time  when  you  and  Sir  Hugh  were 
about  together  and  when  you  very  nearly  challenged  the 
Game  Chicken  to  a  fight  you  not  knowing  who  he  was? 
You  see  I  remember  everything  you  tell  me.  Even 
Joseph  could  be  flattered,  but  it  required  a  little  pressure 
to  get  him  to  admit  that  he  had  a  complete  BelVs  Life; 
why  he  kept  it  God  knows.  I've  often  imagined  him 
reading  the  prize-fights  and  the  race-meetings  and  the 
cock-fights  all  over  again  in  the  long  evenings  at  Muchloon. 
I  suppose  that  was  it,  but  he  never  told  me  that  was 
why  he  kept  them,  the  most  secretive  little  man  ever 
known:  you  might  tell  him  anything  and  be  sure  that 
he  would  not  repeat  it. 

A  little  man?  I  said.  I  imagined  him  as  a  tall,  lean 
hungry  man.  You  got  that  idea,  my  fellow-traveller 
replied,  from  what  I  told  you  of  his  wife:  a  tall,  mel- 
ancholy woman.  No,  he  married  the  very  opposite 
to  himself.  Joseph  was  a  short-necked,  full-bodied,  white- 
faced  little  man,  rotund  in  later  life.  Don't  I  remember, 
my  fellow-traveller  continued,  the  short  fleshy  nose  and 
his  running  walk?     And  did  he  live  all  alone  in  Muchloon? 


32        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

Did  all  the  servants  go  away  with  Sir  Hugh  to  London? 
I  asked.  Not  all,  my  fellow-traveller  answered.  The 
old  cook  and  housemaid  remained  with  him,  but  they 
were  very  old  and  died  a  few  years  afterwards,  blessing 
the  master  because  he  left  them  on  board  wages.  Ser- 
vants were  very  grateful  in  former  times  and  thought 
a  great  deal  was  being  done  for  them  if  they  were  not 
left  to  starve.  And  there  were  no  complaints  about  the 
dinners  they  were  given,  nor  the  rooms  they  were  put  to 
sleep  in.  The  servants  always  slept  in  large  roomy 
subterranean  dwellings  in  Muchloon,  at  the  end  of  the 
kitchen  passage;  the  eighteenth  century  in  Ireland,  and 
perhaps  elsewhere,  did  not  look  after  their  servants  as 
well  as  the  nineteenth. 

Is  Joseph  still  alive?  I  asked,  for  my  imagination  was 
now  filled  with  the  personality  of  the  old  servant,  whom 
I  could  see  in  my  mind's  eye  taking  the  air  on  the  weed- 
grown  terrace,  and  in  my  mind's  ear  was  the  peacock,  the 
last  of  a  hundred,  uttering  doleful  cries  from  the  branches 
of  a  great  cedar. 

No,  said  my  companion,  Joseph  is  dead;  he  died  in  his 
pantry  jive  years  ago.  I  saw  him  three  weeks  before 
his  death;  he  was  then  eighty  but  still  thinking  of  the 
autumn  handicaps,  and  as  he  fancied  a  horse  for  Cesare- 
witch  I  said:  Joseph,  I'll  put  you  on  ten  shillings.  The 
horse  won,  but  Joseph  was  not  here  to  receive  it.  I'm 
sorry,  for  I'd  have  liked  him  to  have  won  his  last  bet, 
I  said.  It  didn't  matter.  The  ten  shillings  that  I  put  him 
on  at  twenty-five  to  one  illuminated  the  last  day  of  his 
life,  and  perhaps  he  died  seeing  in  a  vision  his  horse 
passing  first  beyond  the  post.  An  honest  death-bed 
vision  that  would  be.  A  man's  death  should  be  part  and 
parcel  of  his  life.  So  Joseph  died  English  to  the  last? 
Yes,  my  companion  answered,  Ireland  failed  to  assimilate 
him,  and  then,  anxious  to  make  amends  at  the  end  of  the 
story  for  my  inattention  at  the  beginning,  I  asked  for 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        33 

news  of  Joseph's  sons,  and  learned  that  they  had  sold 
their  interest  in  the  farm  and  purchased  some  cars  and 
horses.  They  were  now  car-drivers  in  Athenry,  and 
Muchloon  stands  empty  on  its  green  hilltop,  the  present 
owner  not  being  rich  enough  to  live  there.  The  most 
he  can  do,  continued  my  fellow-traveller,  is  to  keep 
a  caretaker  in  the  house.  When  he  goes  the  next  man 
will  sell  the  lead  off  the  roof,  and  Muchloon  will  be  added 
to  the  ruins  of  all  sorts  that  encumber  Ireland.  The 
finest  assortment  of  ruins  the  world  can  show.  From  the 
fifth  century  onwards  every  century  is  represented; 
English  and  Irish  ruins,  ruined  houses  and  ruined  lives. 

At  the  next  station  I  was  bidden  good-bye,  and  lay  back 
in  my  seat  with  a  very  vivid  impression  in  my  heart  of  a 
man  that  lived  in  the  world  unhappily. 


CHAPTER  8. 

ATHLONE  was  the  destination  of  my  travelling  com- 
-  panions,  and  when  they  were  gone  I  had  the  carriage 
to  myself,  but  only  for  a  few  minutes.  Just  before  start- 
ing a  man  entered,  and  he  came  in  so  quietly  that  I  did  not 
raise  my  eyes  but  continued  my  meditations.  Neither 
cough  nor  sneeze  nor  shuffle  of  feet  nor  rustle  of  news- 
paper nor  match  was  struck  to  disturb  me:  it  was  the 
silence  that  awakened  me  from  my  dream  of  the  old 
English  servant  who  had  always  remained  a  stranger,  an 
alien  in  the  country  whither  chance  had  carried  him. 

My  new  travelling  companion  was  a  frail  old  man  of 
seventy:  a  priest,  I  said,  grown  old  in  his  craft,  and  I 
began  to  scrutinise  his  face,  reading  in  it  only  obedience 
to  rule:  like  one  asleep  in  his  instinct,  I  added;  and  asked 
myself  if  he  were  ordered  by  his  Church  to  commit  some 
act  that  raised  his  conscience  in  revolt  would  he  accept 


34        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

his  conscience  as  his  guide  or  would  he  place  his  Church 
above  his  conscience?  The  answer  my  reason  returned 
to  this  question  was  that  the  dilemma  I  had  formulated 
could  not  arise,  for  it  was  plain  from  the  man's  face  that 
he  had  long  ago  accepted  the  Church  as  his  conscience. 

He  sat  at  the  further  end  of  the  railway  carriage,  his 
face  bent  upon  his  breviary  and  almost  hidden  in  the 
shadow  of  a  large-brimmed  hat.  It  was  this  partial  view 
of  his  face,  a  silhouette  in  which  little  appeared  but  a  long, 
finely  cut  nose,  that  reminded  me  of  a  face  I  had  seen 
many  years  ago;  and  in  the  shadow  of  a  hat,  I  said.  I 
never  knew  more  of  the  face  that  I  am  trying  to  re- 
member, only  the  pointed  oval  and  the  long,  finely  cut 
nose.  The  eyes  I  never  saw,  they  were  always  averted 
from  me,  just  like  the  priest's  eyes  are  now.  If  it  should 
be  the  same  priest!  The  word  "priest"  stirred  my 
memory,  and  of  a  sudden  it  became  certain  that  the  old 
man  reading  his  breviary  at  the  further  end  of  the  railway 
carriage  was  none  other  than  Cunningham's  spiritual 
director;  the  priest  who  used  to  wait  on  Cunningham's 
doorstep  when  I  lived  in  Upper  Ely  Place — a  tiny  cul  de 
sac — five  little  eighteenth-century  houses  built  on  a  sort 
of  terrace  overlooking  a  garden,  a  square,  about  a  rood  of 
ground  belonging  to  No.  4,  the  house  I  lived  in.  A  quiet 
little  old-world  spot  shut  off  from  the  grand  houses  of  Ely 
Place  by  tall  iron  gates;  marked  off,  I  should  have  said, 
for  the  gates  were  always  open,  and  the  rare  sight-seer 
led  by  chance  into  this  forgotten  corner  of  the  city  must 
have  often  wondered  why  the  gates  were  ever  put  there, 
for  what  purpose — to  defend  Ely  Place  against  the  robbers 
that  used  to  descend  from  the  Dublin  mountains  to  raid 
the  city  as  late  as  the  eighteenth  century?  The  sight- 
seer's fancy  may  have  wandered  into  this  explanation  of 
the  gates  and  out  of  it  into  another  equally  absurd,  but 
it  could  not  have  occurred  to  anybody  in  the  twentieth 
century  that  the  gates  were  merely  ornamental,  designed 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        35 

with  no  other  view  than  beauty;  he  may,  however,  have 
failed  to  notice  that  they  added  to  the  seclusion,  and  were 
never  shut  for  the  reason  that  it  were  vain  to  shut  gates 
on  a  forgotten  corner. 

Often  from  my  windows  have  I  watched  the  vagrant 
sight-seer  pace  the  little  pavement  the  length  of  my 
garden  and  seen  him  stop  perplexed  by  the  old-world 
beauty  of  the  place,  by  the  little  alley  of  lilac  bushes, 
the  laburnums,  hawthorns  and  the  great  apple-trees;  the 
flower  walk  filled  with  old-fashioned  flowers,  and  the 
pump  by  the  elder  bush  under  the  fig-trees,  could  not  fail 
to  stir  even  the  most  sluggish  imagination.  Myself,  too, 
pacing  the  sward,  my  hands  behind  my  back,  composing, 
or  idly  at  work  in  the  flower  beds  on  either  side  of  the 
gravel  walk,  or  listening  to  the  sparrows  quarrelling  in  the 
hawthorns  or  flying  from  the  bees  that  often  pursued  me, 
or  thinking  of  my  neighbours  whilst  sitting  under  the  great 
apple-tree,  must  have  added  to  the  romance. 

At  No.  5,  a  household  of  elderly  women  with  a  boy 
destined  for  the  Church,  already  morose.  At  No.  4, 
myself.  At  No.  3,  Cunningham,  the  man  whose  story  I 
am  about  to  relate;  at  No.  2,  a  couple  of  noisy  girls  with 
a  taste  for  brogue,  dogs,  bicycles  and  whistling.  At 
No.  1,  a  celebrated  lawyer  of  retiring  presence,  without 
a  story,  if  that  be  possible.  We  all  no  doubt  have  stories, 
and  death  is  a  tragedy  which  finds  its  way  into  every  life 
sooner  or  later,  slowly  or  swiftly,  and  I  know  of  no  more 
moving  tragedy  than  the  death  of  my  next-door  neighbour. 

I  often  guessed  him  to  be  a  retired  tradesman,  without 
however  being  able  to  fit  him  into  any  trade.  He  would 
not  do  for  a  grocer — grocers  are  men  of  serious  mien,  and 
Cunningham,  to  put  it  bluntly,  was  a  comic  little  fellow, 
suited  to  the  music  hall  stage,  one  whose  turn  could  be 
relied  upon  to  revive  the  drooping  spirits  of  an  audience 
after  a  sentimental  song  with  harp  accompaniment.  A 
butt  of  a  man,  as  we  say  in  Ireland;  thick-set,  with  a  large 


36        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

head  and  the  rolling  gait  of  a  dwarf  when  he  fared  forth 
after  his  dinner  about  three  o'clock,  always  dressed  the 
same,  in  a  yellow  overcoat  and  wide  grey  trousers,  a 
corpulent  cigar  always  in  his  mouth  and  a  white  flower  in 
his  button-hole,  a  jolly  little  fellow  to  the  casual  observer, 
but  to  me,  who  saw  him  every  day,  his  humour  seemed 
superficial  and  to  overlie  a  deep-set  melancholy — the 
melancholy  of  the  dwarf,  somebody  once  said,  and  the 
words  put  a  thought  of  Velasquez's  dwarfs  into  my  mind. 
In  earlier  centuries  he  would  have  drifted  into  the  palace, 
but  how  did  he  escape  the  music  hall,  I  often  murmured, 
and  set  to  snail  hunting  while  considering  the  little  man 
whose  life  was  as  strange  as  his  appearance,  for  he  seemed 
to  be  without  any  friends,  nobody  ever  crossed  his  thresh- 
old except  his  servant,  an  old  woman  who  always  bade 
me  the  hour  of  the  day;  and  it  was  from  her  I  learnt  that 
when  Cunningham  went  forth  in  the  afternoon  he  would 
not  return  until  seven  in  the  evening:  and  all  that  while 
he'll  be  walking  round  Phoenix  Park,  she  said,  talking  to 
the  many  people  he  meets  with  on  the  way,  for  the 
master  is  well  known  to  everybody  in  the  city  of  Dublin. 
But  he  never  asks  anybody  to  his  house,  I  said.  No,  she 
answered;  no  one  comes  here.  But  he's  well  known  and 
respected  in  the  city  of  Dublin. 

When  we  passed  each  other  in  the  street  he  always 
averted  his  eyes,  and  if  I  had  been  polite  I  should  have 
imitated  him,  but  I  could  not  keep  myself  from  looking 
into  his  comical  eyes  turned  up  at  the  corners,  and 
wondering  at  the  great  roll  of  flesh  from  ear  to  ear,  and 
at  the  chins  descending  step  by  step  into  his  bosom.  But 
my  knowledge  of  Cunningham  did  not  exceed  the  facts 
observed  by  myself  and  related  by  his  housekeeper:  till 
one  day,  some  months  later,  I  was  kept  waiting  at  Sir 
Thornley  Stoker's,  my  presence  causing  the  doctor  some 
embarrassment,  for  there  was  some  shutting  of  doors  and 
a  hurried  exit  through  the  hall  that  set  me  wondering 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        37 

who  the  man  or  woman  could  be  that  Sir  Thornley  Stoker 
did  not  wish  me  to  see.  The  faint  surprise  this  caused 
was  increased  by  the  doctor's  hilarity  when  I  was  admitted 
into  his  study.  He  lay  back  in  his  Chippendale  arm-chair 
overcome  by  some  uncontrollable  mirth.  At  last  in  reply 
to  my  demands  of  an  explanation  he  blurted  out:  you've 
just  missed  seeing  Cunningham.  I  asked  him  to  stay  to 
meet  you  but  at  the  moment  your  name  was  mentioned 
he  snatched  up  his  hat.  It's  a  pity  you  don't  know 
Cunningham.  Cunningham  is  Dublin  in  essence.  You 
see,  read  and  understand  Dublin  in  Cunningham.  An 
epitome,  an  abridgement,  a  compendium  of  Dublin.  But 
why  won't  he  know  me?  The  doctor  seemed  unwilling 
to  answer  my  question,  and  this  made  me  very  curious  to 
hear  the  reason,  but  I  soon  began  to  perceive  that  the 
doctor  did  not  know  exactly  the  reason  of  Cunningham's 
aversion.  Very  likely  because  we're  next-door  neighbours, 
I  said.  There  may  be  something  of  that  in  it,  the  doctor 
answered,  and  all  the  while  his  lips  trembled  with  laugh- 
ter. At  last  he  could  control  his  hilarity  no  longer,  and 
I  watched  him  roll  over  in  his  wonderful  Chippendale 
chair.  Now  what  is  it?  I  asked,  and  he  began  to  tell  me 
that  Cunningham  was  possessed  of  all  the  drollery  of  the 
world  and  could  control  any  meeting,  do  what  he  liked 
with  it,  and  then  the  doctor  began  to  repeat  himself, 
telling  me  that  Cunningham  knew  everybody  and  was 
always  overflowing  with  comicality,  and  seized  by  a  sudden 
memory  the  doctor  exploded  with  laughter.     If  you  had 

only  heard  him  just  now  telling But  do  tell  me.     I 

can't  tell  you.  It's  the  Dublin  accent  and  the  Dublin 
idiom.  It  was  all  about  Evelyn  Innes.  You  don't  know 
what  you've  missed,  and  he  turned  over  in  his  chair 
to  laugh  again.  No,  there's  no  use  my  trying  to  tell 
it;  you  should  hear  Cunningham.  But  I  can't  hear 
Cunningham;  he  won't  know  me.  At  last,  apologising 
for  spoiling  the  story,  Sir  Thornley  told  me  that  I  must 


38       A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

take  for  granted  the  racy  description  of  two  workmen 
who  had  come  to  Upper  Ely  Place  to  mend  the  drains 
in  front  of  my  house. 

After  having  dug  a  hole,  they  took  a  seat  at  either  end, 
and  sat  spitting  into  it  from  time  to  time  in  solemn  silence, 
until  at  last  one  said  to  the  other:  do  you  know  the  fellow 
that  lives  in  the  house  forninst  us?  You  don't?  Well, 
I'll  tell  you  who  he  is;  he's  the  fellow  that  wrote  Evelyn 
Innes.  And  who  was  she?  She  was  a  great  opera  singer. 
And  the  story  is  all  about  the  ould  hat.  She  was  lying 
on  a  crimson  sofa  with  mother-of-pearl  legs  when  the 
baronet  came  into  the  room,  his  eyes  jumping  out  of  his 
head  and  he  as  hot  as  be  damned.  Without  as  much  as 
a  good-morrow,  he  jumped  down  on  his  knees  alongside 
of  her,  and  the  next  chapter's  in  Italy. 

The  crimson  sofa,  I  said,  with  the  mother-of-pearl  legs, 
and  the  baronet  "as  hot  as  be  damned"  would  be  about 
as  much  of  the  story  as  a  Dublin  workman  would  be  likely 
to  gather  from  the  book. 

But  if  you  had  heard  himself  tell  it,  the  doctor  chortled. 
He  always  speaks  of  you  as  "George,"  the  doctor  added, 
and  he  again  became  speechless.  Thompson,  he  said  at 
last,  knows  Cunningham  better  than  I;  he  pulled  him 
through  a  long  and  serious  illness  when  he  was  landlord 
of  the  Blue  Anchor  in  Abbey  Street.  So  he's  a  retired 
publican,  I  answered.     I  always  saw  a  retired  tradesman  in 

him  but But  what?  the  doctor  said.     Only  this,  that 

he  reminded  me  more  often  of  the  chairman  in  a  music 
hall;  he  can  troll  out  a  song,  I  hear  him  sometimes  of  a 
Sunday  morning  through  the  wall;  and  behind  the  bar 
he  would  be  as  popular  as  in  front  of  the  footlights.  A 
dangerous  trade  his  for  an  Irishman,  the  doctor  said,  for 
the  host  must  drink  with  his  customers,  a  sort  of  assurance 
that  the  quality  of  the  whisky  is  all  right.  So  he's  a 
retired  publican,  I  continued.  And  a  very  successful 
publican,    Stoker    interjected.     He    brought    seventeen 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        39 

thousand  pounds  out  of  the  business.     But  Thompson 
will  tell  you  more  about  him  than  I  can. 

Sir  William  Thompson  was  Sir  Thornley  Stoker's  bro- 
ther-in-law, and  on  my  next  visit  to  54  Stephen's  Green 
heard  that  there  was  nobody  like  Cunningham  to  raise 
a  laugh  against  the  clergy.  Our  clergy?  I  said.  His 
own  clergy,  Thompson  answered,  and  he  recalled  some 
of  Cunningham's  sallies. 

But  if  he  knows  Catholicism  to  be  so  unworthy, 
how  is  it  that  he  has  not  discovered  himself  to  be  a 
Protestant? 

Ah!  Sir  William  answered,  you  ask  that  question 
because  you  haven't  yet  learnt  to  understand  Ireland. 
Cunningham  was  sent  to  confession  when  he  was  seven 
years  of  age,  and  his  confessor  so  kneaded  hell  into  his 
mind  that  neither  drink  nor  women  could  enable  him  to 
forget  it  afterwards.  There's  too  much  punishment  in 
our  theology,  and  it  is  even  more  prominent  in  Catholic 
religious  education,  for  the  Catholics  have  purgatory.  I 
don't  know  where  they  get  it  from,  but  purgatory  is  the 
boy  that  robs  the  widow  and  the  orphan  for  them,  and 
purgatory  and  hell  work  together  in  Catholic  picture 
books  and  prayers — red-hot  devils  stoking  the  fire,  lakes 
of  boiling  pitch,  and  with  the  excellent  result,  from  the 
priest's  point  of  view,  that  the  Catholic  mind  is  paralysed. 
With  the  front  of  his  mind  Cunningham  sees  that  his 
clergy  think  more  of  possessing  themselves  of  the  prop- 
erty of  their  parishioners  than  of  anything  else;  that 
they  haunt  death-beds  and  despoil  widows  and  orphans 
without  mercy.  Every  month  a  will  in  which  a  man 
leaves  all  his  money  for  masses  for  the  repose  of  his  soul 
is  contested  in  the  Law  Courts.  Cunningham  knows  all 
this;  he's  a  shrewd  man,  he  would  not  have  brought 
seventeen  thousand  pounds  out  of  the  Blue  Anchor  if  he 
hadn't  been  a  shrewd  man,  but  at  the  back  of  his  mind 
there  is  fear  of  hell  and  purgatory.     The  doctor  stopped 


40        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

speaking,  his  face  becoming  grave  and  thoughtful.  A 
moment  after  he  broke  into  a  smile.  To  appreciate 
Cunningham,  he  said,  you  must  hear  him  talk;  a  spring 
of  natural  humour  which  you  say  you  have  never  met 
with  in  Ireland  and  which  you  deny  exists.  I'd  like  you 
to  meet  Cunningham,  but  he's  afraid  of  you,  I  think.  But 
why,  I  asked,  should  he  be  afraid  of  me?  He's  a  little 
queer,  but  nothing  serious,  the  doctor  answered. 

A  little  later  Stoker  returned  to  Cunningham's  humour 
and  tried  to  explain  it,  telling  that  it  flowed  along  like  a 
brook,  as  spontaneous  and  as  natural,  rising  up  out  of 
himself  without  artifice.  Yes,  I  think  I  understand;  with 
the  smack  of  spring  water  on  it,  I  answered,  and  the 
doctor  told  of  Cunningham's  power  over  an  audience;  how 
he  captivated  it  and  held  it  by  the  raciness  of  his  wit.  I 
should  like  you  to  meet  him,  he  repeated.  But  if  he 
won't  meet  me  there's  no  help  for  it,  I  answered.  And 
bidding  the  doctor  good-bye  I  returned  home,  remembering 
more  distinctly  than  anything  else  what  the  doctor  had 
said  about  Cunningham's  fear  of  hell. 

Yes,  I  said  to  myself,  that  is  the  characteristic  of  Ireland, 
fear  of  hell,  and  I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  Irish  publican, 
saying  to  myself,  his  seventeen  thousand  pounds  may 
develop  easily  into  scruples  of  conscience,  I  wonder! 


CHAPTER  9. 

THE  days  melted  into  weeks,  as  their  wont  is,  and  the 
weeks  accumulated,  and  from  my  doorstep  this  year  as 
last  year  I  saw  Cunningham  start  forth  every  afternoon, 
rolling  down  the  pavement  as  one  of  Velasquez's  dwarfs 
might,  a  white  flower  in  his  button-hole,  a  corpulent  cigar 
in  his  mouth.  He  returned  after  having  accomplished 
several  miles  to  a  lonely  dinner  and  a  long  evening  by 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        41 

himself.  Sometimes,  I  said,  he  has  the  old  woman  up 
in  the  drawing-room  and  chats  with  her.  And  little  by 
little  the  desire  to  discover  a  theme  in  which  Cunningham 
would  display  himself  began  to  fidget  me,  and  when  the 
sanitary  inspector  condemned  my  drains  I  sent  his  report 
to  Cunningham,  who  returned  the  report  just  as  if  he  were 
able  to  see  into  my  mind  and  had  read  there  that  I  could 
not  do  else  than  look  upon  him  as  a  type.  If  we  met  in 
the  street  coming  from  different  directions  he  avoided  my 
look,  and  he  never  stopped  to  gaze  into  my  pretty  garden, 
and  there  were  times  when  my  garden  was  a  very  pretty 
one,  especially  in  early  spring  when  the  apple-trees  were 
in  bloom,  and  later  the  hawthorns,  and  afterwards  in  late 
summer,  when  the  sweet-pea  was  in  flower.  But  he  never 
looked  at  my  flowers,  and  nobody  ever  came  to  see  him, 
until  one  day  I  saw  the  grey  stony  face  of  the  priest  sitting 
opposite  to  me  in  the  train  on  Cunningham's  doorstep, 
and  fell  to  wondering  what  his  errand  might  be.  A  few 
days  after  I  caught  sight  of  the  priest  again,  and  hence- 
forth not  many  days  passed  without  my  seeing  him; 
every  week  he  appeared  on  the  doorstep,  and  the  stony 
face  put  thoughts  into  my  mind  of  the  terrors  it  was  the 
duty  of  the  priest  to  foster:  however  much  he  might 
deprecate  as  a  man  the  despoiling  of  widows  and  orphans 
he  must  not  impugn  the  advantage  it  is  to  the  sinner  to 
leave  money  for  masses  for  the  salvation  of  his  soul. 

The  priest's  face  never  changed  expression,  nor  did  he 
look  up  at  me;  and  though  I  often  passed  by  him  and 
strove  to  attract  his  eyes,  they  remained  fixed  on  the  door- 
step whilst  he  waited  for  the  servant  to  open  the  door  for 
him.  And  the  grey,  stony  face  of  the  priest  on  the  doorstep 
pursued  me  during  my  walks,  setting  me  thinking  of  the 
drama  in  progress,  only  a  wall,  I  said,  separating  me  from 
it:  a  poor  little  man  of  unbalanced  mind  rapidly  losing 
his  wits  at  the  thought  of  the  almost  endless  ages  he  will 
have  to  spend  in  purgatory,  expiating  the  sins  of  his  youth, 


42        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

unless  he  leaves  the  money  he  acquired  in  the  Blue  Anchor 
to  the  Church  for  masses  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  Sad 
alternatives :  to  despoil  one's  relations  or  remain  in  purga- 
tory, and  in  imagination  I  could  see  the  twain  sitting 
opposite  each  other;  a  look  of  horror  on  the  publican's 
face,  the  priest's  grey  and  immovable. 


CHAPTER  10. 

ONE  day  as  I  came  down  to  breakfast  I  heard  a  woman 
talking  to  my  servants  and  there  was  from  time  to 
time  a  great  wail  of  grief  in  her  voice,  and  in  grave  appre- 
hension I  asked  myself :  what  strange  and  doleful  story  can 
she  be  telling,  and  my  heart  beat  faster  as  I  descended  the 
kitchen  stairs. 

What  is  this,  what  is  this  I  cried,  and  a  moment  after 
I  recognised  in  our  visitor  the  woman  who  looked  after 
poor  Cunningham. 

Oh,  sir,  she  exclaimed;  O  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph,  the 
master  is  after  hanging  himself  this  morning  out  of  the 
banisters,  and  she  continued  her  story,  sobbing  and  wail- 
ing from  time  to  time,  and  by  degrees  I  learnt  that  on  not 
finding  him  in  his  bedroom  when  she  took  up  his  cup  of 
tea  in  the  morning,  she  waited,  expecting  that  he  was  in 
the  closet,  but  as  he  did  not  return,  and  not  hearing  him 
about  she  began  to  be  alarmed  and  started  looking  for 
him,  and  it  was  from  the  banisters  of  the  top  storey  that 
she  found  him  hanging. 

You  don't  sleep  in  the  top  storey? 

No,  sir,  I  sleep  in  the  basement. 

Was  he  dead  when  you  found  him? 

Maybe  he  wasn't;  he  must  have  gone  up  the  stairs  to 
hang  himself  only  a  minute  or  so  before  I  brought  him  up 
his  tea. 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        43 

And  he  was  dead  before  you  could  get  a  knife  to  cut 
him  down? 

There  was  a  knife  on  the  tray,  sir;  but  I  didn't  like  to 
cut  him  down  for  fear  that  he  would  hurt  himself  in  the 
fall,  and  I  ran  out  without  my  cap  or  anything  to  fetch 
the  police. 

But  for  what  reason  did  he  hang  himself?  I  asked. 
He  wasn't  in  want  of  money? 

No,  sir,  that  wasn't  it.  He  left  the  money  a  while  back 
to  the  Church  for  masses  to  be  said  for  his  soul.  But  you 
see,  sir,  the  priest  used  to  be  telling  him  that  he  couldn't 
keep  himself  from  the  drink.  Maybe  you  saw  the  priest 
standing  on  our  doorstep,  sir? 

Yes,  yes,  I  answered. 

The  poor  master  often  fancied  himself  a  bit  queer  in 
his  mind,  though,  indeed,  he  was  not,  sir.  He  was  not 
indeed;  he  was  as  sane  as  you  or  I.  It  was  easy  to  twist 
him  so  that  he'd  go  out  of  his  wits,  and  he  afraid  that  he 
might  lose  the  wits  when  there  wasn't  a  priest  next  or 
near  him  to  hear  his  confession ;  it  was  that  was  troubling 
his  mind.  And  that's  what  they  would  be  talking  about 
upstairs,  the  priest  urging  him  to  go  into  John-o'-God's 
and  be  looked  after  there. 

John-o'-God's,  I  repeated;  what  a  strange  name. 

Yes,  sir,  but  you  must  know  it,  the  asylum  up  in 
the  woods  by  the  Scalp.  And  it  was  fear  of  going  there 
that  drove  him  to  the  hanging,  I'm  sure  of  that.  For 
only  the  night  before,  when  I  was  sitting  in  the  drawing- 
room  with  him,  he  said  to  me:  they'll  never  get  me 
as  long  as  I  have  this  hand,  and  they'll  never  get  me 
there. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  front  door  bell  rang. 
My  secretary,  I  said.  She  came  down  to  the  kitchen 
and  heard  the  story  over  again  from  the  old  woman,  and 
going  upstairs  together  she  said  to  me:  I  saw  Mr. 
Cunningham  last  night  returning  home,  carrying  some- 


44        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

thing  under  his  coat,  and  his  face  frightened  me.  He 
must  have  been  planning  it  then. 

Carrying  something  under  his  coat? 

Yes,  one  end  of  it  was  showing;  a  rope  it  seemed  to 
me  to  be. 

No,  it  wasn't  a  rope,  a  strap,  I  said.  He  must  have 
gone  down  to  buy  it  and  returned  home  as  you  were 
leaving,  about  seven  o'clock.  Afraid  of  John-o'-God's  he 
hanged  himself — only  in  John-o'-God's  could  he  escape 
from  temptation,  and  only  there  could  he  be  sure  of 
having  a  priest  to  shrive  him  at  the  last  moment,  and  only 
in  death  could  he  escape  John-o'-God's.  And  once  in 
John-o'-God's  he  could  not  unmake  his  will.  It's  neat,  I 
said,  and  the  girl's  eyes  returned  to  me  as  we  stood  looking 
at  each  other. 

A  moment  after  my  eyes  returned  to  the  priest  sitting 
in  the  railway  carriage,  to  the  thin,  refined  face  in  which 
there  was  neither  cruelty  nor  kindness,  only  an  impersonal 
will,  the  will  of  the  tooth  in  the  cog  wheel  of  the  machine, 
no  more  than  that;  and  I  watched  it  till  pity  of  Cunning- 
ham turned  to  pity  of  the  priest  and  a  dream  began  to 
unwind  of  the  intimate  horror  that  possesses  a  man  when 
he  begins  to  realise  that  he  is  no  better  than  a  priest. 

The  train  was  stopping  and  the  priest  left  the  train  at 
Castlebar  to  continue  his  ministrations  where  and  how  I 
have  no  knowledge. 


CHAPTER  11. 

NO  passenger  for  Westport  entered  the  carriage  at  Cas- 
tlebar to  distract  my  thoughts  from  Cunningham's 
last  days,  and  for  some  time,  how  long  I  cannot  say,  I  was 
considering  how  the  idea  of  hanging  himself  had  grown  in 
his  mind,  taking  possession  of  it  till  nothing  else  seemed 
real,  or  true,  or  worth  thinking  about.     At  times,  I  said, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        45 

he  must  have  been  attracted  by  the  idea  of  escape,  as  a 
hunted  animal  might  be,  and  there  must  have  been  other 
times  when  he  remembered  that  to  take  one's  life  is  a 
mortal  sin  for  which  there  is  punishment.  Yet  despite 
all  the  descriptions  of  hell  that  his  mind  had  been  ter- 
rorised with,  the  fear  of  John-o'-God's  was  greater. 
But  how  can  one  know  what  passed  in  that  failing  brain? 
He  must  have  suffered  vaguely  and  intensely,  as  a  lost 
dog  suffers  who  knows  not  whither  his  master  has  gone 
or  if  he  will  ever  return,  or  like  the  bee  that  has  gotten 
into  this  carriage  and  strives  to  escape  through  the  sunlit 
pane.  A  poor  bumble  bee,  a  silly  insect  compared  with 
the  bees  that  used  to  work  in  my  garden  forming  combs 
with  such  economy  of  space  that  the  mathematician  is 
obliged  to  say  it  could  not  be  done  better.  But  the  silly 
bumble  bee  merely  makes  a  round  hole,  and  therefore  is 
not  able  to  lay  up  sufficient  store  of  honey  for  the  winter. 
My  knowledge  of  bee  life  here  ended,  and  my  thoughts 
went  to  the  poor  bumble  anxious  to  escape  from  the  train. 
It  has  been  carried  long  past  its  hive,  I  said,  if  the  bumbles 
have  hives,  and  will  not  find  its  way  back.  It  will 
wander  among  the  furze  of  yon  hill  and  die  at  season's 
close,  but  that  is  better  than  to  be  slashed  down  by 
the  porter's  towel  at  Westport;  and  forthright  I  began 
a  chase  of  the  bee,  handkerchief  in  hand,  catching  the 
insect  at  last  and  throwing  it  from  the  window.  A 
moment  after  it  seemed  to  be  back  again,  or  another  bee 
had  come  in,  and  overcoming  some  reluctance  to  continue 
the  chase,  I  began  it  again  and  the  insect  was  put  out  to 
seek  sufficient  honey  for  its  life  among  the  low  rocky 
hills;  if  it  could  not  gather  honey,  to  die  as  bees  die, 
very  much  as  we  do,  I  said,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  my 
satisfied  conscience  fell  to  wondering  at  the  natural  pity 
that  had  compelled  me  to  risk  being  stung  for  so  faint 
a  result  as  the  prolongation  of  a  bee's  life — a  week  at 
most,  I  said,  in  some  fragile  bloom.     By  some  odd  connec- 


46        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

tion  of  ideas  the  bee  recalled  to  my  mind  a  nun  that  I  had 
not  dared  to  set  free,  and  to  help  the  time  away  I  sum- 
moned the  circumstances  of  the  happy  sunny  morning 
that  I  started  from  Paris  to  meet  a  lady  who  was  coming 
from  Etretat.  We  were  to  spend  the  day  together  at 
Rouen;  and,  being  an  adept  in  the  mystery  of  time-tables, 
she  had  informed  me  of  the  departure  of  a  certain  train 
from  the  Gare  St.  Lazare  which  would  arrive  at  Rouen  at 
a  few  minutes  past  midday  and  she  hoped  to  find  me 
waiting  for  her  on  the  platform. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  we  were  to  breakfast  to- 
gether and  visit  the  Cathedral  afterwards,  and  to  this 
happiness  I  had  been  looking  forward,  and  not  less 
eagerly  to  the  hours  between  the  Cathedral  and  dinner: 
for  our  courtship  had  lasted  a  long  while,  delayed  by  the 
lady's  sense  of  sin  and  its  consequences,  but  of  late  it  had 
seemed  to  me  that  her  sense  of  sin  had  weakened,  and 
so  seriously  that  there  was  no  saying  what  might  not 
befall  her  between  Cathedral  and  dinner  unless  clerestory, 
nave,  aisle  or  ambulatory  should  cast  her  back  again 
into  past  and  present  perplexities  of  conscience.  And 
with  the  danger  of  the  Cathedral  well  in  my  mind, 
which  could  not  be  avoided,  but  would  have  to  be  faced, 
I  repaired  to  the  railway  station  and  waited  in  a  dusty 
station,  enlivened  only  by  the  cackling  of  peasant  women 
and  several  crates  of  ducks  and  geese.  The  fowls,  being 
packed  too  tightly  for  comfort,  cackled  in  terrified  accents, 
thrusting  their  heads  forth,  withdrawing  them  quickly  to 
avoid  the  caresses  of  a  small  boy;  and  the  same  pity  that 
had  compelled  me  to  release  the  bee  afflicted  me  again.  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  given  the  fowls  their  freedom, 
but  this  was  impossible,  and  I  walked  perturbed  and 
wearied  by  the  monotonous  cackle  of  peasant  women  and 
fowls,  till  at  last  a  nun  lifted  her  eyes  to  mine  as  she 
passed  me  by:  a  strange  glance  of  inquiry  it  was,  a  look 
that  I  could  not  do  else  than  to  interpret  as  the  appeal 


A  STORY-TELLERS  HOLIDAY        47 

of  one  human  being  to  another  for  help.  That  her  look 
was  one  of  appeal  I  am  certain  now,  after  many  years,  but 
in  the  railway  station  it  was  different.  I  remembered  as 
I  walked  back  and  forth  that  I  had  heard  of  prostitutes 
disguising  themselves  as  nuns,  but  I  did  not  believe  the 
nun  who  had  raised  her  eyes  to  mine  was  a  prostitute.  If 
I  had,  her  image  would  have  worn  away  like  the  image 
of  a  coin,  whereas  her  image  is  as  clear  in  my  mind  as 
the  image  on  a  coin  just  come  from  the  mint;  a  long  thin 
pointed  oval  face,  well-shapen  grey  eyes  illuminating  a 
white  formal  pallor,  a  long  thin  nose  and  a  small  chin; 
a  plain  woman  it  is  true,  but  her  plainness  was  an  in- 
teresting plainness.  The  habit  she  wore  was  black, 
without  white  forehead  band;  and  I  remember  the  well- 
wrought  cross  hanging  on  her  breast;  she  was  a  young 
woman  who  might  be  twenty — and  was  not  more  certainly 
than  twenty-three  or  four.  She  passed  without  loitering, 
her  eyes  inviting  speech,  with  a  view,  I  said,  to  obtaining 
my  help.  It  cannot  be  else.  But  I  shall  know  for  certain 
the  next  time  she  passes,  and  when  we  crossed  each  other 
again  as  before  her  eyes  threw  out  the  same  inquiry. 

There  were  only  a  few  peasant  women  in  the  railway 
station  when  I  arrived.  She  must  have  come  in  a  few 
minutes  after  me,  I  said,  and  if  she  looks  again  I'll  speak, 
and,  on  a  resolve  to  offer  help  to  the  nun  if  she  should  ask 
for  help,  my  eyes  went  to  the  clock:  the  hands  pointed 
to  three  minutes  to  twelve  and  I  said:  if  my  lady  were 
to  find  me  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  nun,  my 
chances  of  getting  her  will  be  prejudiced  maybe. 

The  nun  passed  out  of  the  station,  and  I  hesitated 
whether  I  should  follow  her.  She  can't  deceive  me,  I 
said;  half-a-dozen  words  and  I  shall  know  all  about  her. 
Moreover,  it  isn't  likely  that  a  Rouenaise  would  rely 
on  such  a  romantic  deception  pour  faire  un  homme,  an 
expression  that  Balzac  appreciates  as  le  sublime  argot  des 
filles.     Moreover,  were  she  a  punk  she  would  not  come 


48        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

to  an  empty  railway  station  to  ply  her  trade;  and  if  she 
did  she'd  wait  for  the  express  from  Etretat  to  come  in. 
It  may  be  that  I  did  not  think  quite  so  clearly  at  the  time 
as  I  am  thinking  now,  but  I'm  certain  the  woman  wasn't 
a  punk  disguised  as  a  nun.  The  moment  was  an  anxious 
one,  so  anxious  that  I  remember  the  wide  rough  open 
thoroughfare  rising  slightly,  with  trees  on  either  side, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  road  the  bridge  which  she  crossed 
on  her  way  back  to  the  convent — she  left  it  after  long 
resistance,  for  she  could  not  believe  else  than  that  the 
impulse  compelling  her  to  return  to  life  was  but  a  tempta- 
tion of  the  devil.  She  looked  back  once  and  the  moment 
remains  on  my  mind  in  as  clear  outline  as  the  face  of  the 
nun. 

The  instinct  of  life,  I  said,  at  last  broke  the  chains  of 
prejudice  and  convention,  the  door  stood  invitingly  open; 
she  passed  out;  her  courage  carried  her  to  the  railway, 
and  what  is  more  likely  than  that  in  her  soul  crisis  she 
forgot  she  had  no  money  for  her  journey.  Nuns  have 
no  money!  At  sight  of  me  hope  blossomed  again  in  her 
heart.  I  looked  like  one  who  would  sympathise,  who 
would  understand,  and  who  could  lend  her  the  sum  of 
money  she  needed. 

She  would  have  said:  as  soon  as  I  reached  home  my 
relations,  my  friends,  will  return  you  the  money  you  so 
kindly  lent  me,  and  my  answer  would  have  been :  a  letter 
from  you  telling  me  how  you  fare  will  be  preferable. 
The  debt,  if  you  will  let  it  remain  one,  will  be  a  gift 
inestimable. 

These  words  we  might  have  exchanged  in  the  few 
minutes  before  the  train  arrived  from  Etretat;  they 
would  have  been  treasured  like  jewels  and  would  have 
cheered  me  when  myself  seemed  to  myself  no  more  than 
a  shameful  incident  in  the  stream  of  life.  The  words 
we  would  have  exchanged  would  have  helped  me  to 
remember  that  I  was  worth  at  least  one  good  action,  but 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        49 

the  good  action  drifted  by  me  as  the  saving  plank  drifts 
by  a  swimmer.  Nor  is  it  too  much  to  say  that  her  words 
would  have  brightened  my  death-bed.  But  I  missed 
my  adventure,  remaining  hypnotised  by  an  imaginary  fear : 
my  lady  would  have  loved  me  better  for  my  action  when 
she  heard  the  story,  and  it  would  have  rendered  her 
immune  from  the  influence  of  the  Cathedral.  But  why 
think  of  her,  she  is  no  part  of  the  story  that  filled  my 
heart  to  overflowing  on  the  way  to  Westport. 

Her  chance  gone  by  for  ever,  I  said,  she  will  return  to 
her  convent  to  weep  till  her  heart  becomes  dry;  the 
piercing  will  at  first  seem  unendurable,  but  it  will  die 
down  till  she  feels  nothing  of  the  old  desire,  no  faintest 
echo  of  it,  and  she'll  be  glad  and  believe  the  peace  she 
is  enjoying  comes  from  God,  unsuspicious  that  it  is 
the  absorption  of  the  individual  will  in  the  will  of  the 
community. 


CHAPTER  12. 

WE  were  now  within  three  miles  of  Westport,  its  hills 
unveiling  crest  after  crest  to  eyes  that  rejoice  in  out- 
line. How  is  it,  I  asked  myself,  that  we  can  always  tell  if 
an  artist  has  drawn  a  hill  badly? — a  hill  may  be  of  any 
shape,  yet  we  can  say  always  if  a  hill  in  a  picture  is  well 
drawn.  It  would  not  be  true  to  say  that  the  Dublin  moun- 
tains are  ill  drawn,  though  they  are  as  shapeless  as  pillows 
and  bolsters,  in  a  bad  light,  and  no  better  than  waves  in  a 

good.  Now  if  Monet  had  drawn  them But  would  he 

draw  what  was  not  laid  out  for  drawing?  As  there  is  a  great 
deal  in  nature  that  is  not  laid  out  for  drawing,  the  first  busi- 
ness of  the  artist  is  to  select;  a  head,  badly  placed  in  the 
canvas  and  badly  lighted,  demands  all  the  skill  of  a  great 
artist,  and  even  he  may  not  be  able  to  do  what  Nature  has 


50        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

set  her  face  against  his  doing.  We  must  not,  I  continued, 
enter  into  competition  with  nature,  and  all  the  lack-lustre 
pictures  painted  in  the  eighties  rose  up  before  my  eyes: 
the  strips  of  grey  sky  and  the  sage-green  foregrounds  we 
used  to  admire.  We  used  to  admire  Watts,  who  entered 
into  competition  with  Titian;  but  all  competition  is  to  be 
deplored,  I  cried  out,  somewhere  between  Castlebar  and 
Westport,  aesthetic  reverie  after  aesthetic  reverie  helping 
the  time  away  till  a  beautiful  bridge  came  in  sight  of  ten 
or  a  dozen  tall  arches  spanning  a  deep  valley,  the  tallest 
arch  rising  to  at  least  a  hundred  feet. 

The  straight  parapet  reminded  me  of  Waterloo  Bridge. 
Waterloo  Bridge  passes  into  slums,  I  said,  but  on  the 
thither  side  this  bridge  is  engulfed  in  woods — an  admirable 
bridge,  a  delightful  contribution  to  a  beautiful  town,  de- 
clining, it  is  true,  but  are  not  all  neighbourhoods  declining? 
Piccadilly  is  now  a  mart  consisting  principally  of  tobacco 
and  jewellery  shops,  interspersed  with  clubs — the  clubs 
were  once  the  dwellings  of  the  aristocracy  of  England — 
Lord  Palmerston's  house  only  ceased  to  be  his  house  in  my 
boyhood;  and  for  long  afterwards  Piccadilly  was  a  great 
residential  quarter.  Park  Lane,  once  so  dandy,  has  fallen 
into  a  vulgar  thoroughfare  through  which  many  hundreds 
of  buses  pass  daily.  And  if  we  cross  the  Channel  we  find 
the  same  decadence.  The  Champs  Elysees  is  a  mere  show 
of  motor  cars,  and  the  Place  Vendome  a  market  for 
picture  bonnets,  gowns  and  jewellery.  And  let  us  not 
think  of  the  great  Palais  Royal  and  who  lived  there,  lest 
we  burst  into  tears  at  the  thought  of  its  ruin.  And  our  cafe 
has  become  the  haunt  of  panders  and  punks.  As  all  the 
world  declines  visibly  it  would  be  vain  to  expect  Westport 
to  be  exempt  from  the  general  declension.  But  this  may 
be  said:  Westport  declines  beautifully;  abandoned  mills 
may  be  a  sad  spectacle  in  the  eyes  of  the  merchant,  but 
in  the  artist's  eyes  these  warehouses  rise  up  "like  palaces 
in  the  dusk,"  and  no  ugly  one,  though  the  sun  be  shining 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        51 

and  an  east  wind  blowing,  for  saplings  have  grown  up 
and  birds  have  discovered  a  paradise  amid  the  ruins. 

A  river,  spanned  in  the  principal  street  by  stone  bridges, 
flows  through  Westport,  and  the  stream  is  lined  with 
noble  elms,  with  seats  between  the  trees  for  the  vagrant, 
and  some  beautiful  houses  for  his  regalement.  The  bank 
was  once  the  house  to  which  the  Dowager  Lady  Sligo  was 
wont  to  retire  on  the  marriage  of  her  son,  and  to  this  day 
it  is  known  as  the  Dower  House.  Her  journey,  no  doubt 
accomplished  in  a  coach  and  four,  was  not  a  long  one,  for 
the  gates  of  the  domain  faced  the  little  river  that  proceeds 
through  the  domain  out  into  the  sea.  It  is  sad  that  the 
beautiful  house,  with  as  noble  a  sweep  of  staircase  as  any 
in  Merrion  Square,  should  have  been  turned  into  a  prosaic 
bank,  and  we  seek  consolation  and  find  it  in  the  domain 
wall,  a  great  piece  of  feudal  masonry  that  ascends  hills 
and  drops  into  valleys  mile  after  mile. 

Westport  strikes  off  to  the  right  and  left  sporadically, 
with  here  and  there  a  house,  telling  that  in  former  times 
Westport  had  some  culture;  a  quiet  life  of  sedate  em- 
broideries no  doubt  flourished  behind  finely  propor- 
tioned windows  of  which  only  a  few  remain.  About 
four  beautiful  houses  remain,  I  said,  and  the  car  turned 
up  a  street  that  put  the  eighteenth  century  clean  out 
of  my  mind:  here  at  least,  I  said,  there  can  have  been 
no  declension,  for  what  I  see  is  Ireland  in  essence — 
broken  pavements  with  a  desolating  tide  of  children, 
pouring  over  the  thresholds  of  almost  underground 
dwellings.  And  the  street  ends  characteristically,  I 
added,  in  some  shards  and  splinters  of  cottages. 

We  passed  some  school  buildings  where  a  pastor  was 
engaged  in  admonishing  the  little  flock  before  the  lambs 
returned  to  the  ewes  for  dinner,  and  the  sight  of  him 
reminded  me  of  another  pastor,  a  few  hundred  yards 
away,  in  the  street  leading  up  the  hill  to  the  rectory. 
He,  too,  is  anxious,  I  said,  that  there  shall  be  no  stray- 


52        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

ings;  that  the  flock  shall  depart  in  good  order  and  keep 
to  the  straight  road. 

And  this  opposition  of  Catholics  and  Protestants  puts 
into  my  mind  thoughts  of  Stevenson  in  the  Cevennes  and 
the  aphorism  that  he  so  often  heard  on  the  lips  of  the 
mountaineers — it  is  a  bad  thing  for  a  man  to  change. 
And  so  convinced  is  he  of  the  truth  of  this  aphorism  that 
he  repeats  it  in  his  narrative  two  or  three  times,  saying 
that  a  man's  religion  is  the  poetry  of  the  man's  experi- 
ence, the  philosophy  of  the  history  of  his  life,  and  that 
a  man  may  not  vary  from  his  faith  unless  he  can  eradicate 
all  memory  of  the  past,  and  in  a  strict  and  not  conventional 
meaning  change  his  mind.  The  glitter  of  the  words  and 
the  sentimentality  captivate  the  reader  till  he  lays  aside 
the  book  and  begins  to  remember  that  the  Cevennians 
were  Catholics  before  they  were  Protestants,  and  that 
before  they  were  Catholics  they  were  heathen — facts  that 
disturb  his  enjoyment  of  Stevenson's  style,  for  it  would 
seem  impossible  to  admire  words,  however  prettily  they 
may  flourish,  if  they  put  forth  an  untruth. 

In  his  pursuit  of  style  Stevenson  seems  to  have  for- 
gotten that  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  religious  stagnation 
he  recommends  we  must  wait  for  the  next  world;  it  has 
never  existed  in  this  and  would  seem  to  be  contrary  to 
the  conditions  of  our  mortal  life.  "We  cannot  bathe 
twice  in  the  same  river,"  a  philosopher  said  long  ago,  and 
his  disciples  added  afterwards:  "we  cannot  bathe  once 
in  the  same  river."  Scotsmen  are  almost  proverbially 
metaphysical,  but  a  great  man  is  an  exception  in  his  own 
country;  were  it  not  so  Stevenson  could  not  have  failed  to 
perceive  that  Protestantism  and  Catholicism  are  states 
of  soul,  the  possessions  of  mankind  rather  than  of  any 
particular  race  or  family,  rising  up  in  the  same  country 
and  in  the  same  family  spontaneouly  and  without  apparent 
cause.  Peter  was  a  Catholic  and  Paul  was  a  Protestant, 
and  a  thousand  years  before  Peter  and  Paul  were  born 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        53 

there  were  Protestants  and  Catholics.  So  in  the  strict 
sense  there  is  no  conversion;  we  merely  discover  in  our 
hearts  what  we  brought  into  the  world  with  us,  a  dis- 
position leading  us  to  pious  practices  or  an  inly  sense 
of  divinity. 

A  striking  illustration  of  a  man  becoming  possessed  of  a 
sudden  sense  of  divinity  is  given  by  Stevenson  in  the  very 
pages  that  I  am  criticising.  Stevenson  had  cast  his  camp 
under  some  chestnut-trees  where  he  had  slept  ill,  the 
ground  being  full  of  ants;  and  there  being  no  water  in 
the  garden  he  made  his  toilet  in  the  waters  of  the  tarn 
before  continuing  his  journey  through  a  valley,  overtaking 
an  old  man,  who  walked  beside  him  talking  about  the 
morning  and  the  valley.  Connaissez  vous  le  Seigneur? 
the  old  man  asked.  And  as  if  averse  from  giving  a 
direct  answer  Stevenson  asked  him  what  Seigneur.  The 
peasant  only  repeated  the  question  and  Stevenson 
answered:  now  I  understand  you.  Yes,  I  know  him. 
He  is  the  best  of  acquaintances;  and  delighted  at  this 
answer  the  old  Plymouth  Brother  cried,  striking  his 
bosom:  it  makes  me  happy  here.  A  truly  Protestant 
state  of  feeling,  so  much  so  that  the  words  bring  a  re- 
sponsive thrill  into  the  heart  of  every  Protestant  that 
reads  them.  Of  this  Stevenson  seems  to  have  been  aware, 
but  he  does  not  seem  to  have  understood  that  this  peasant 
might  have  a  son  who  would  be  more  moved  by  the  motion 
of  a  priest's  finger  giving  him  a  blessing  than  by  the 
spectacle  of  the  sun-rise. 

The  old  Plymouth  Brother  follows  Stevenson  to  the 
inn  and  listens  to  him  in  admiration  and  delight,  feeling 
for  the  first  time  the  spiritual  intimacy  of  which  he  has 
been  long  deprived,  his  lot  having  been  cast  in  the  Cath- 
olic village.  There  are  many  of  us  up  yonder,  he  said, 
none  here.  Stevenson  draws  a  comparison  between  his 
own  feelings  regarding  this  man  and  the  feelings  of  the 
excellent  friar  whom  he  met  road-making  on  the  sum- 


54        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

mits  leading  to  the  monastery,  "Our  Lady  of  the  Snows." 
I  have  not  got  the  passage  before  me,  but  I  think  that 
my  memory  does  not  betray  me.  Stevenson  admits 
that  with  some  reservations  he  can  make  common 
cause  with  the  Plymouth  Brother;  but  he  finds  himself 
aloof  in  the  company  of  the  friar,  though  he  is  con- 
strained to  allow  that  the  friar  is  as  worthy  a  man  as  the 
Plymouth  Brother.  This  seems  to  me  to  be  true.  If  a 
man  be  of  a  Protestant  kin  he  is  at  home  and  at  spiritual 
communion  with  all  Protestant  sects — Congregationalists, 
Quakers,  Methodists  and  Unitarians.  He  is  not  sepa- 
rated from  them  as  he  is  from  Papists.  An  Agnostic, 
too,  is  at  home  with  all  Protestant  sects.  Whether 
a  man  stays  away  from  church  or  goes  to  church  is 
a  matter  of  no  importance.  He  may  be  an  atheist  and 
still  feel  himself  to  be  of  the  same  communion  as  Prot- 
estants, for  atheism  and  Protestantism  rest  on  the 
same  foundation — the  right  of  private  judgment.  Nor 
can  theological  difference  concern  us  Protestants  very 
acutely,  for  no  man  knows  what  he  believes,  moral 
differences  are  more  important,  and  it  follows  that  if  we 
surrender  our  right  of  private  judgment  we  become  if  not 
immoral  at  least  unmoral;  and  that  is  why  Protestants 
feel  themselves  so  strangely  aloof  among  Catholics. 
Any  curtailment  of  the  body  operates  on  the  mind,  and 
the  stinted  mind  soon  begins  to  put  on  a  different  com- 
plexion, as  none  can  have  failed  to  notice  that  keep  cats. 
The  Tom  from  next  door  is  manifestly  ill  at  ease  in  the 
company  of  my  Blackie,  who  has  been  to  the  butcher, 
and  I  have  often  thought  that  the  embarrassment  he  feels 
is  not  unlike  mine  when  I  happened  to  drift  into  the  com- 
pany of  Papists. 

The  falsetto  scream  that  comes  out  of  Ireland  and  a 
certain  untrustworthiness  in  the  national  character  may 
be  traced  back  to  the  relinquishment  of  the  right  to 
private  judgment;  without  it  a  man  is  not  wholly  a  man, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        55 

I  said,  and  striving  immediately  afterwards  to  mitigate 
the  thought  that  had  come  into  my  mind,  I  continued: 
but  all  is  not  black  or  white;  grey  is  the  primal  colour. 
There  are  Protestant  Catholics,  and  there  are  Catholic 
Protestants.  But  are  there?  I  asked.  And  is  grey  as 
interesting  in  live  animals  as  it  is  on  the  painter's  palette? 
And  are  the  all-buts  more  interesting  than  the  pure 
neutrals? 


CHAPTER  13. 

THE  house  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  between  the 
end  of  the  street  and  the  high  wood,  hidden  behind 
walls,  only  its  long  low  roof  showing,  the  passenger  along  the 
foot-path  getting  no  more  than  a  glimpse  of  it  through 
the  tall  gates,  open  only  for  carriages  and  motors,  our- 
selves coming  and  going  by  the  wicket.  A  somewhat 
gloomy  residence  it  must  seem  to  him  who  stops  before 
the  gates,  the  charm  and  life  of  the  house  being  on  the 
other  side,  about  a  lawn  shelving  steeply,  and  rising  up 
as  steeply  to  the  high  wood.  A  river  is  heard  muttering 
in  the  valley,  and  its  banks  come  into  view  presently 
describing  a  curve  so  formal  that  our  thoughts  are  carried 
back  into  the  eighteenth  century,  when  labour  could  be 
obtained  for  sixpence  a  day.  It  was  then,  we  say,  the 
river  was  deviated  from  its  natural  course  to  make  a 
beautiful  little  domain. 

A  foison  of  briers  and  ash  saplings  has  grown  out  of 
the  river's  walls  and  is  pitching  them  stone  by  stone 
into  the  river,  adding  to  its  picturesqueness.  And  for  a 
week,  I  say  to  myself,  as  I  hand  the  carman  his  fare,  I 
shall  listen  to  the  brown  river  bubbling  past  a  great 
cedar;  and  when  I  go  to  the  tennis  ground  I  shall  cross 
it  by  a  plank  bridge. 

From   the   tennis   ground   the   lawn    slants   upwards, 


56        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

pleasantly  diversified  by  bunched  hawthorns,  casting,  I 
say  to  myself  as  I  wait  on  the  doorstep,  having  rung  the 
bell,  round  beautiful  shadows  about  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon. 

About  the  house  are  tall  ash-trees  and  beeches,  and  these 
are  filled  in  June  with  young  rooks  trying  their  wings 
from  branch  to  branch.  If  the  breeze  snakes  the  branch 
too  violently  they  fall  into  the  shrubberies,  where  the 
parent  bird,  who  would  feed  them,  may  seek  them  and 
find  them.  One  of  the  girls  shoots  the  young  rooks  with 
a  pea  rifle  as  they  swing;  and  this  always  seems  to  me 
a  cruelty;  for  rooks  are  not  eaten  in  Ireland.  It  may 
matter  little  to  the  dead  birds  whether  they  are  thrown 
to  cats  or  dogs,  or  whether  they  are  baked  in  pies;  but 
the  same  might  be  said  of  ourselves,  that  it  matters  little 
to  a  man  whether  he  lies  in  a  vault  or  is  thrown  on  a 
dung-hill;  yet  we  cannot  detach  our  hopes  from  vaults, 
wherefore  then  should  not  young  rooks  be  prejudiced  in 
favour  of  internment  in  pies,  for  it  were  surely  more 
honourable  to  lie  with  hard-boiled  eggs  and  bacon,  under 
a  dome  of  well-kneaded  pastry,  than  to  be  dragged  about 
a  greensward  by  a  dog — too  often  the  fate  of  thoughtless 
young  rooks,  I  said  last  year,  and  shall  say  the  same  this 
year  as  I  sit  on  the  shelving  lawn  convinced  that  there 
is  nothing  in  this  world  more  beautiful  than  the  round 
shadows  of  hawthorn-trees  dropping  down  a  grassy  hill- 
side, and  of  all  when  the  grassy  hillside  ascends  towards 
a  high  wood. 

Only  in  this  house  and  on  this  lawn  and  during  the 
June  weather  do  I  escape  from  literature,  from  secretaries, 
from  manuscripts,  from  proofs,  and  surrender  myself  to  an 
almost  thoughtless  idleness,  and  to  snatches  of  conversa- 
tions with  my  friends,  who  have  too  many  projects  of  their 
own  to  attend  to  one  who  has  no  project  outside  of  his 
dreams. 

A  girl  rises  from  the  breakfast-table  saying  she  has  a 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        57 

bicycle  ride  of  many  miles  in  front  of  her;  another  speaks 
of  a  fishing-party,  and  when  the  family  collects  about  the 
dinner-table,  one  narrating  the  adventures  of  her  ride, 
another  telling  how  a  fortnight  hence  she  and  another 
girl  will  be  camping  out  on  one  of  the  islands  in  the  bay, 
I  begin  to  think  that  I  should  be  a  different  George 
Moore  if  I  were  married.  There  would  be  a  difference 
certainly,  and  a  very  real  difference,  and  in  this  house 
the  difference  appeals  to  me  as  a  subject  of  a  story;  the 
invention  of  my  married  self  would  be  a  real  flight  of 
the  imagination,  and  the  struggle  between  myself  and 
circumstance  a  piece  of  literature.  The  wife  I  should 
choose  for  sesthetical  reasons  may  be  revealed  to  me  in  a 
sudden  flash  as  I  sit  on  the  sunny  lawn  if  the  day  be  fine, 
or  if  it  be  wet,  as  I  read  in  the  billiard-room  looking 
forward  to  my  walk  through  the  most  musical  wood  in 
the  world,  a  river  tumbling  round  and  over  the  boulders, 
a  sort  of  ground-base  accompaniment  to  the  songs  of 
blackbirds  and  thrushes. 

A  river  flowing  through  a  high  wood  awakens  our  child- 
hood, not  dead  but  sleeping;  our  primal  imaginations 
return  to  us — dragons,  giants  and  elves;  and  so  eager  are 
we  to  escape  from  the  present  back  into  the  past  that  we 
begin  to  feel  an  annoyance  creep  up  in  us  as  we  descend 
the  shelving  lawn.  The  old-fashioned  flowers  whose 
names  are  familiar  do  not  let  us  from  the  past,  but  the 
flowering  bushes — certain  pink  flowers  whose  name  is 
perhaps  begonia — impede  us,  and  a  strange  word  "  calceo- 
laria," a  plant  or  bush,  bearing  some  ugly  yellow  flower 
or  berry,  we  know  not  which,  bars  our  way,  and  imprisons 
us  in  the  present.  But  the  wood  will  give  back  our 
childhood  to  us;  in  this  moment  of  crisis  we  remember 
at  the  bend  of  the  river  some  dark  spiky  foliage  favoured 
with  a  name  so  beautiful  that  our  memory  should  have 
retained  it  without  difficulty  from  one  year  to  the  next; 
but  again  it  has  passed  out  of  our  mind.     But  as  soon  as 


58        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

this  dense  growth  is  behind  me,  I  say  to  myself,  I  shall 
be  among  forest  trees,  the  humble  cow-parsley  and 
lowly  blue-bells  and  the  winning  speedwell  running  in 
and  out  between  the  tall  grasses  will  set  me  thinking 
once  again  that  there  is  no  flower  that  speaks  as  plainly 
as  the  speedwell,  not  even  the  wild  geranium  which  I 
shall  find  higher  up  in  the  wood  overhanging  the  stream. 
As  I  approach  the  woodland  I  continue  to  enumerate 
the  flowers  I  shall  meet  there :  the  speedwell  will  brighten 
my  way,  and  I  shall  catch  sight  of  rocket  here  and  there 
amid  the  tall  grasses,  and  peonies  white  and  pink  and 
purple.  Rhododendrons  are  all  through  the  high  wood. 
I  shall  see  again  a  tall  spray  of  rhododendron  flower- 
ing in  the  lonely  twilight  of  a  wooded  island,  maybe, 
and  for  sure  I  shall  walk  under  pale  green  foliage  filled 
with  noisy  rooks,  talking  of  course,  but  of  what?  Ah!  if 
we  knew. 


CHAPTER  14. 

MY  every  step  produces  a  clamour  of  wings  in  the 
greenery  above  me:  the  jackdaws  have  nests  in  the 
holes  in  the  elm  and  their  caw  is  softer  than  the  rook's,  and 
as  I  walk  I  regret  not  being  able  to  take  back  a  jackdaw 
to  London  for  a  pet,  for  no  bird  is  more  inclined  to 
domesticity  than  he  is,  quitting  his  kind  for  our  kind  if  he 
received  any  slight  encouragement  to  do  so. 

In  a  moment,  and  without  my  being  conscious  of  the 
departure  of  rooks  and  jackdaws,  two  birds  that  the 
gardener  told  me  last  year  were  dippers  engage  my 
attention,  and  I  remember  that  the  name  he  put  upon 
them  did  not  satisfy  me,  and  how  pleasurable  it  was  to 
seek  them  out  in  an  illustrated  book  and  to  discover  the 
almost  tailess  birds  shapen  like  wrens,  with  white  waist- 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        59 

coats,  to  be  water-ousels — birds  that  had  merely  a  Words- 
worthian  reality  for  me  till  I  saw  them  in  Westport. 

It  is  delightful  to  meet  in  life  what  one  is  a  little 
weary  of  meeting  in  poetry;  to  watch  the  rapid  beat  of 
their  wings  as  they  fly,  resting  every  twenty  or  thirty 
yards  upon  a  boulder,  now  and  then  plunging  into  the 
water,  to  run  along  the  bottom  in  search  of  worms,  so  the 
book  informed  me,  and  it  became  a  passion  in  me  to  try 
to  verify  the  fact. 

The  birds  go  under  water  in  search  of  food,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that,  since  they  did  not  seek  their 
food  on  land;  but  the  nature  of  the  food  they  sought 
could  hardly  be  worms;  for  worms  do  not  live  under 
water;  and  standing  like  a  stock  I  apply  myself  to  the 
observation  of  the  birds  without  however  gathering  a 
single  fact  except  that  their  flight  is  short  and  rapid  like 
the  kingfisher's;  and  I  say  to  myself:  to  note  anything 
new  about  them  I  shall  have  to  discover  their  nest;  for 
they  have  a  nest  here  surely,  though  the  season  is  late. 
One  only  meets  them  on  the  island,  if  I  may  call  it  such. 
An  island  it  was  certainly  in  the  mind  of  the  eighteenth- 
century  designer,  but  the  channel  he  dug  has  filled  up 
with  mud,  but  with  mud  still  sufficiently  liquid  to  justify 
the  appellation  of  island  to  a  very  beautiful  and  romantic 
spot  protected  by  mud  on  one  side  and  a  river  on  the 
other  from  sight-seers  beguiled  to  trespass  by  the  tran- 
quillity of  these  woods,  and  the  high  ruin  hanging  over 
the  crest  of  the  hill.  None  knows  that  island  except 
the  water-ousels,  I  say  to  myself  as  I  walk  thither;  and 
birds  who  do  not  frequent  trees  nest  in  old  walls. 

But  how  beautiful  are  the  trees  in  their  island  seclusion; 
and  with  unwearying  fondness  my  eyes  wander  among 
the  tall  stems  and  out  upon  the  branches,  admiring  the 
anatomy  and  the  architecture,  convinced,  and  my  convic- 
tion is  ecstatic,  that  in  this  world  there  is  nothing  so  admir- 
able as  a  tree,  or  so  mysterious.     Small  wonder,  I  say,  that 


60        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

men  have  worshipped  them;  would  that  I  too  might 
worship,  and  upon  the  wings  of  a  perfervid  desire  of 
worship  my  thoughts  melt  into  a  thoughtless  contempla- 
tion of  an  overhanging  tree  that  a  boy  would  have  liked  to 
use  as  a  bridge,  but  being  no  longer  a  boy  I  meditate  on 
the  noble  gesture,  saying  to  myself:  a  fallen  or  falling 
tree  humanises  a  wood. 

The  ousels  have  disappeared  into  the  nest  that  I  shall 
never  find;  and  I  move  up  the  path  that  I  may  get  a 
better  view  of  the  great  white  wall  of  an  ancient  mill 
pierced  with  many  windows,  through  which  the  sunset 
will  pour  as  the  last  train  rattles  over  the  viaduct  on  its 
way  to  Achill,  emphasising  the  solitude  of  the  wood  as 
it  ascends  amid  high  rock. 

It  could  not  have  been  else  than  here,  I  say,  that  my 
infantile  eyes  would  have  espied  dragons,  giants  and  elves 
in  the  twilight  of  overhanging  clefts;  and  who  can  say 
they  are  not  here  still?  'Tis  our  former  selves  that  have 
vanished;  we  are  always  losing  and  winning  something; 
nothing  is  permanent  within  or  without.  In  childhood 
I  saw  dragons,  giants  and  elves,  and  now  I  see  high  trees, 
ivy  clad,  lifting  themselves  with  lovely  gesture  out  of  a 
tangle  of  hawthorn,  with  the  pale  pink  rhododendron 
blossom  resting  atop  of  its  tall  stem  in  the  solitude  of  a 
wooded  island — the  same  as  last  year.  Of  what  have  I 
to  complain? — we  only  change  our  visions;  and  my 
philosophy  is  confirmed  a  few  yards  farther  on  by  a  group 
of  laburnums  venturing  into  the  river  for  all  the  world  like 
a  group  of  golden-haired  nymphs. 

The  hart's  tongue  and  the  Royal  Osmunda  should  do 
well  here,  I  say,  and  my  eyes  begin  a  search  for  the  tall, 
pale,  reed-like  fern  of  which  there  is  not  one  about,  and  I 
pause,  for  at  that  moment  an  otter  slides  into  the  river 
noiselessly;  and  seeing  the  dark  animal  come  up  with  a 
fish  in  its  mouth  and  disappear  into  the  bank,  I  begin  to 
think  of  the  hungry  cubs  at  the  end  of  a  hole  about  three 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        61 

feet  deep,  of  all  I  had  read  about  tame  otters,  and  of  the 
stiffness  of  the  ascent  up  the  hill-side — an  ascent  that  a 
few  years  hence  I  shall  undertake  with  some  little  difficulty, 
but  which  to-day  is  pleasant  exercise. 

The  path  leads  through  tall  boles  rising  like  spears,  a 
beech  wood;  and  soon  after  I  find  myself  beset  as  of  yore 
by  thoughts  regarding  a  wall  some  twenty  feet  high 
descending  steeply  into  a  lovely  hollow  and  rising  up 
again  as  steeply,  saying  to  myself:  a  strange  thought  it 
was  surely  to  build  a  wall  twenty  feet  high  through  a 
wood:  but  it  adds  to  the  mystery  of  this  little  domain 
designed  so  finely  by  Nature  one  that,  Le  Notre  would 
have  said,  I  can  neither  add  to  nor  curtail. 

And  on  coming  out  of  the  wood  I  find  myself  on  a  sort 
of  terrace  or  terraced  walk  overlooking  the  deer  park — a 
deer  park  of  twenty  acres!  In  the  eighteenth  century  a 
deer  park  was  a  necessary  adjunct  to  every  gentleman's 
residence,  and  in  Ireland  the  eighteenth  century  did  not 
end  till  1870,  therefore,  in  my  boyhood,  almost  every 
residence  of  distinction  in  Mayo  had  a  deer  park — that 
Moore  Hall  should  be  without  one  was  a  source  of  shame 
and  regret  to  me;  and  it  was  not  infrequent  for  me  to 
drop  into  meditations  regarding  a  possible  extension  of  the 
Stone  Park.  As  late  as  the  sixties  there  were  deer  in 
Castle  Carra;  and  the  great  mass  of  brushwood  (through 
which  we  used  to  wend  our  way  with  our  luncheons — a 
picnic  in  the  ruined  castle  was  a  pleasure  looked  forward 
to  eagerly)  might  be  purchased  from  Sir  Robert  Blosse 
if  one  of  our  race-horses  would  win  a  big  race.  And 
these  dreams  of  long  ago  were  revived  by  the  miniature 
deer  park  of  Westport  Lodge — a  deer  park  of  twenty 
acres,  in  which  the  last  stag  was  shot  some  years  ago 
on  account  of  his  refusal  to  share  his  paddock  or  park 
with  a  jackass;  the  jackass  was  required  for  the  children, 
and  the  stag  was  an  old  friend  that  lived  on  excellent 
terms  with  everybody  but  the  jackass,  what  was  to  be 


62        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

done?  And  the  perplexity  the  stag  caused  in  his  life 
did  not  end  with  his  death;  nobody  would  eat  this  noble 
and  affable  friend.  He  was  given  to  the  dogs,  I  believe. 
But  away  with  such  memories. 

Above  me  rises  a  wall  of  great  height  covered  with  a 

thick  green  creeper,  heart-shapen  papery  leaves  forming 

an  obscure  growth  at  the  foot  of  the  wall,  and  filled  with 

a  blue  flower  so  uninteresting  that  it  is  called  periwinkle; 

nor  does  it  deserve  a  nobler  name,  and  only  a  man  lacking 

in  the  finer  instincts  would  stop  to  consider  it  on  a  terrace 

commanding    so    admirable    a   view — the    wooded   park 

descending  in  many  beautiful   shapes,   and  beyond  its 

trees  the  roofs  of  the  town  showing  against  the  dark 

sides  of  the  Westport  hills;  hill  after  hill  rising  up  in 

rugged  outlines  like  bastions  designed  as  if  to  support 

the  almost  too  perfect  symmetry  of  St  Patrick's  Hill.     A 

peak  as  regular  as  the  famous  volcano  that  the  Japanese 

painters    spent    their    lives    in    the    eighteenth    century 

drawing  and  redrawing,  and  saying  to  each  other:  if  we 

live  for  another  fifty  years  we  may  produce  a  drawing 

that  will  satisfy  us.     But  in  Ireland  nobody  draws,  and 

popular  imagination  was  satisfied  by  the  building  of  a 

tiresome  church  on  the  top  of  it,  whither  pilgrims  go 

wearing   their   shoe   leather   away   and   emptying   their 

pockets.     A  Whilom  volcano,  so  it  is  said,  in  the  back  end 

of  time,  some  five  hundred  thousand  years  maybe  before 

the  birth  of  man.     I  had  once  thought  that  with  five 

hundred  tons  of  dynamite  the  regularity  of  the  peak 

might  be  undone,  but  to-day  it  seems  to  me  that  the 

peak    is    all    right    in    its    landscape.     I    would    change 

nothing,  not  even  the  church  that  has  been  built  atop 

of  St  Patrick.     In  God's  good  time  the  people  will  weary 

of  prayers  and  turn  to  drawing,  and  what  a  vision  of 

outlines   for   their   pencils.      On   looking   into   the   gap 

between  the  trees  and  the  Westport  hills,  we  see  a  faint 

blue  line  of  dentilated  hills  almost  lost  to  view  in  about 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        63 

five  and  twenty  of  thirty  miles  of  distance,  the  first  chain 
of  the  Connemara  mountains. 


CHAPTER  15. 

AT  this  moment  Jim  comes  panting  to  heel,  having  failed 
to  get  on  the  trail  of  a  rabbit. 

Jim  is  May's  dog;  and  I  may  have  been  guilty  of  an 
error  in  composition  in  not  having  introduced  the  reader 
to  the  lean,  long-legged  fox  terrier  who  finds  it  at  first 
difficult  to  remember  me  over  the  long  interval  of  eleven 
months.  He  sniffs  and  sniffs  again,  his  memory  returning 
with  every  sniff,  and  at  the  fifth  or  sixth  he  barks,  and 
there  is  no  mistaking  the  bark;  it  says  as  plainly  as 
words :  you're  the  gentleman  who  takes  me  out  rabbiting. 
And  from  that  momemt  he  waits  and  watches,  and  when 
I  raise  my  eyes  from  the  book  I  catch  his  eye,  and  after 
a  time  I  say:  Jim,  you've  been  waiting  a  long  time,  the 
book  that  I'm  reading  must  seem  very  tiresome  to  you, 
let  us  go.  At  these  words  he  utters  a  most  joyful  bark, 
and  scampers  round  the  billiard-table.  If  I  put  on  my 
hat  he  is  nearly  sure  he  is  going  to  be  taken  out,  if  I  take 
the  stick  he  is  certain,  and  away  we  go  in  the  hope  of  a 
rabbit. 

There  is  a  record,  or  at  least  a  legend,  of  Jim  having 
succeeded  in  catching  a  rabbit  on  the  hill-side,  but  within 
my  knowledge  the  triumph  has  always  been  missed,  the 
rabbit  succeeding  in  escaping  down  the  gullet  out  of 
which  he  came  from  Lord  Sligo's  domain. 

The  first  time  that  I  witnessed  the  escape  of  the  rabbit 
was  about  three  years  ago.  Jim,  who  had  brought  a  fine 
scent  into  the  world  with  him,  got  on  the  trail  of  the 
rabbit  at  the  beginning  of  the  wood,  and  went  away,  his 
nose  to  the  ground,  at  full  gallop  without  posting  me, 


64        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

as  he  should  have  done,  to  cut  off  the  retreat,  and  being 
ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  ground,  it  fell  out  that  I 
stopped  unhappily  at  some  ten  or  a  dozen  yards  from  the 
gullet,  instead  of  at  the  entrance  of  the  gullet  itself:  ten 
yards  higher  up  the  hill,  ten  yards  nearer  to  the  gullet, 
I  should  have  been  able  to  turn  a  rabbit  back  who  seemed 
no  wise  in  a  hurry,  the  dog  having  lost  the  scent,  and  the 
rabbit  seemingly  aware  of  the  loss  stopped,  meditated  a 
moment,  and  before  I  could  intervene  hopped  leisurely 
into  the  little  drain  and  passed  up  the  gullet.  The  dog 
arrived  a  few  seconds  afterwards  and  began  the  fruitless 
digging.  Poor  Jim  was  disappointed,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  was  persuaded  to  renounce  the  task,  which  in 
his  heart  he  must  have  known  to  be  hopeless,  of  digging 
out  the  rabbit.  On  many  other  occasions  I  bade  Jim  to 
heel  till  I  was  fairly  stationed  at  the  gullet  and  then  bade 
him  hunt,  but  on  all  these  occasions  there  was  no  rabbit. 
It  was  not  till  last  year  that  a  rabbit  bounded  out  of  the 
undergrowth  with  Jim  after  him  yelping  like  a  Red  Indian 
on  the  war-path,  and  I  following  down  into  the  dell  and 
up  again  striving  to  reach  the  gullet  before  the  rabbit. 
It  may  be  that  I  arrived  too  late  and  it  may  be  that  the 
rabbit  bounded  back  and  escaped  by  another  gullet,  all 
that  can  be  said  definitely  is  that  the  rabbit  escaped. 
More  than  that  would  be  surmise,  conjecture. 

This  year  as  last  year  Jim  will  accompany  me,  but  I 
shall  not  lend  him  my  aid  to  catch  the  rabbit  by  standing 
myself  at  the  gullet,  I  shall  entertain  the  hope  that  the 
rabbit  will  continue  to  escape,  for  were  the  rabbit  taken 
the  hill-side  would  lose  some  of  its  wonder,  some  of  its 
mystery,  some  of  its  adventure.  But  no  such  misfortune 
as  the  taking  of  the  rabbit  will  befall  us;  the  rabbit  is 
never  taken  in  Ireland,  and  let  us  hope  that  the  future 
will  be  like  the  past,  and  that  the  history  of  Ireland  will 
continue  to  be  marked  by  the  escape  of  the  rabbit;  for 
were  the  rabbit  taken  the  country  would  sink  into  such 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        65 

stupor  and  lethargy  as  would  frighten  God  in  His  high 
throne  in  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  16. 

ONE  day  in  my  walks  in  the  high  wood  I  spied  a  man 
standing  on  a  boulder  in  the  midst  of  the  river,  seem- 
ingly undecided  whether  he  should  jump  to  the  next  one; 
and  knowing  the  pool  to  be  deep  between  the  boulders  I 
tried  to  dissuade  him. 

There's  no  chance  of  drowning,  he  cried  to  me,  but  if  I 
miss  my  step  I'll  be  up  to  my  belt.  I  called  out  that  to 
cross  the  river  he  would  be  trespassing  on  private  rights, 
but  he  did  not  heed  my  warning.  He  jumped  again; 
and,  laying  hold  of  a  protruding  root,  began  to  climb  the 
bank,  telling  me  as  he  made  his  way  up  that  the  master 
(the  gentleman  in  whose  house  I  was  staying)  would  have 
nothing  to  say  against  the  gathering  of  a  few  ferns  along 
the  river's  bank. 

A  fern-gatherer,  I  said,  and  followed  him  asking 
questions,  not  so  much  for  the  answers  he  gave  as  for 
the  pleasure  it  was  to  listen  to  his  low,  musical  voice, 
a  tenor  voice,  in  keeping,  it  seemed  to  me,  with  his  pale, 
oval  face;  a  young  man  who  had  just  passed  out  of  his 
first  youth;  an  Irish  peasant,  but  far  from  the  typical,  I 
said,  when  I  left  him  to  his  search  and  continued  my 
walk  through  the  beech  wood,  not  able  to  forget  his 
spare  chestnut  beard,  his  moustache  and  his  comely, 
well-knit  figure.  These,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  I  had  seen 
before  and  many  times,  but  where  I  had  seen  them  I 
could  not  remember,  and  it  was  not  till  after  long  soul 
searching  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  seen  him  in 
pictures.  Yes,  I  murmured  to  myself,  he  is  the  Jesus 
that  has  come  down  to  us  from  the  fifteenth  century, 
imagined  first  perhaps  by  Fra  Angelico,  and  repeated 


66        A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

ever  since  by  many  thousands  of  painters,  inclining  more 
and  more  to  the  feminine  and  epicene  type,  becoming 
a  woman  in  Holman  Hunt's  picture,  The  Light  of  the 
World,  Miss  Christina  Rossetti,  with  a  blonde  beard  and 
moustache.  But,  I  continued,  my  fern-gatherer  does  not 
reproduce  the  fond  emptiness  of  Jesus's  face;  he  is  with 
it  all  a  man;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  I  am  doing 
him  an  injustice  by  associating  him  with  Holman  Hunt's 
version  of  Christina  Rossetti  in  a  blonde  beard.  My  fern- 
gatherer  is  a  man  and  altogether  himself  in  the  life  he 
has  chosen  for  himself.  A  romantic  figure,  I  added,  one 
which  does  honour  to  the  town  of  Westport. 

He  had  already  captured  my  imagination  by  dinner-time, 
and  at  the  first  pause  in  the  conversation,  when  the  girls' 
narratives  of  the  day's  doings  had  ceased,  I  related  our 
meeting,  and  learnt  that  legends  had  already  begun  to 
collect  about  him.  His  name?  I  asked  anxiously,  feeling 
I  should  be  disappointed  if  his  name  were  among  those 
that  one  wearies  of  in  Ireland — Higgins,  Walsh,  O'Connor, 
Murphy.  That  it  might  not  be  Murphy  I  prayed  inly. 
Alec  Trusselby !  It  would  be  strange,  indeed,  I  exclaimed, 
if  legends  had  not  begun  to  collect  about  a  name  like  that, 
and  begged  that  all  that  was  known  about  him  should 
be  told  to  me  at  once.  Everybody  was  willing  to  tell, 
and  the  biographical  scraps  uttered  from  different  ends 
and  sides  of  the  dinner-table  were  in  keeping  with  his 
name. 

I  learnt  from  one  member  of  the  family  that  Alec  had 
been  to  America  and  had  suffered  from  sunstroke,  from 
another  that  he  lived  in  the  woods  all  the  summer-time, 
bringing  back  beech  and  oak  ferns  to  Westport  and  getting 
for  them  a  fair  share  of  money;  and  from  another  that 
his  voice  and  manner  were  so  winning  that  it  was  difficult 
not  to  be  his  customer,  and  as  every  customer  became  a 
patron,  Alec  had  no  cause  for  complaint.  Even  if  he 
had  he  is  not  the  kind  of  man  that  would  complain,  a 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        67 

girl  suddenly  interjected,  and  turning  to  her  I  asked: 
how  is  that?  She  replied  that  he  was  a  very  shy  man 
who  would  remain  silent  for  long  intervals  to  break 
into  speech  suddenly  like  a  bird.  This  seemed  to  me  a 
good  description,  but  I  had  not  seen  enough  of  Alec  at 
that  time  to  be  able  to  vouch  for  its  accuracy.  A  girl  told 
me  the  report  was  that  Alec  had  built  himself  a  summer 
dwelling  in  a  great  tree,  and  I  answered  that  what  she 
said  did  not  surprise  me.  Lying  in  his  bed  under  the 
boughs,  I  said,  he  caught  his  style  from  the  moody  black- 
bird who  fills  the  wood  at  dawn  with  his  exalted  lay; 
more  likely  still  from  the  meditative  thrush.  But  how 
does  Alec  live  through  the  winter?  I  asked,  and  it  was 
delightful  to  hear  that  in  the  winter  he  related  stories 
about  the  firesides  in  the  cottages,  and  that  no  one  refused 
Alec  bed  and  board  if  he  could  help  it;  Alec's  company 
was  sought  for  by  everybody;  and  a  suspicion  was  abroad 
that  to  treat  him  ill  was  to  bring  ill  luck  upon  oneself. 
Gathering  ferns  in  the  summer  and  telling  stories  in  the 
winter,  I  repeated,  becoming  possessed  in  a  moment  of 
an  absorbing  interest  in  Alec  Trusselby.  Is  he  an  Irish 
speaker?  I  asked,  and  heard  that  he  was  one  of  the  best 
in  the  county  of  Mayo.  But,  a  girl  cried  across  the  table, 
mind,  if  he  suspects  you  of  laughing  at  him  he  will  run 
away  at  once,  and  don't  tell  him  you're  a  Protestant, 
he  might  refuse  to  go  into  the  woods  with  you.  With  a 
heretic?  I  added. 

A  custard  pudding  interrupted  the  conversation  about 
Alec,  but  as  soon  as  everybody  had  been  helped  it  returned 
to  him,  and  I  learnt  that  the  gentle  winning  personality 
that  had  awakened  fellow-feeling  in  me  was  only  one  side 
of  Alec  Trusselby;  there  was  another,  and  one  well  known 
to  the  Westport  police — staunch  friends  of  his,  always 
ready  to  take  his  part  when  Alec's  less  reputable  associates 
mocked  him  in  the  street  after  drinking  his  money  away 
in  the  public-house,  their  joke  being  to  try  to  grab  the 


68        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

Murrigan,  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  for  it  never  left  his 
hand,  and  where  the  Murrigan  was  concerned  Alec  was 
resolute  and  strong. 

The  Murrigan?  I  interjected.  He  calls  his  blackthorn 
the  Murrigan,  one  of  the  girls  answered;  but  we  don't 
know  what  the  word  means,  whether  it's  an  Irish  word 
or  a  word  invented  by  himself.  I  wonder  if  the  police 
could  tell  me?  I  said.  Now  why  should  the  police  be 
bothering  their  heads  with  what  Alec  means  when  he 
calls  his  stick  the  Murrigan?  my  friend,  the  girls'  father, 
blurted  out;  and  he  laughed  the  short,  quick,  intelligent 
laugh  whereby  I  remember  him.  Haven't  they  enough 
to  do  to  keep  him  out  of  jail?  And  he  told  a  story  how, 
returning  home  late  one  night,  he  had  come  upon 
Trusselby  and  the  police — the  sergeant  and  the  constable 
engaged  in  trying  to  persuade  Alec  to  return  to  his 
lodging.  You  see,  Alec,  you're  free  to  follow  them  if  you 
like:  the  constable  has  let  go  your  arm,  the  sergeant 
was  saying.  But  if  you  take  my  advice  you'll  be  taking 
yourself  and  the  Murrigan  home  like  the  quiet,  good  man 
that  you  are,  the  divil  a  better.  If  they  insult  you  again 
we'll  let  yourself  and  the  Murrigan  at  them,  but  this  time 
we'll  be  asking  you  to  let  them  pass  on,  for  to  break  their 
skulls  with  the  Murrigan  would  be  conferring  too  much 
honour  upon  them.  You  see,  said  mine  host,  we  have  all 
a  kindly  feeling  for  Trusselby,  myself  as  well  as  the  police; 
to  keep  him  out  of  jail  takes  us  all  our  time,  and  we 
haven't  that  much  over  to  be  ferreting  out  the  meaning 
of  all  the  talk  that  goes  on  between  himself  and  his  stick 
as  he  walks  the  roads.  But  he's  not  half-witted?  I 
asked,  looking  round  the  dinner-table,  preferring  a  general 
to  an  individual  opinion,  and  the  company  was  agreed 
that  Alec  could  not  be  held  to  be  a  loon.  And  his  stories? 
I  asked;  but  none  at  the  table  had  felt  sufficient  curiosity 
to  ask  him  to  tell  them  one.  I'd  give  a  great  deal,  I  said, 
to  hear  Trusselby  tell  a  story,  and  was  warned  not  to  offer 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        69 

him  a  great  deal  of  money,  but  to  wait  an  occasion  to 
win  his  confidence.  If  you  offer  him  a  sovereign  to  tell 
you  a  story  you'll  frighten  him;  he'll  begin  to  suspect 
some  evil  and  you'll  get  nothing  out  of  him.  But  I  may 
not  meet  Trusselby  again,  and  if  I  did,  to  the  end  of  my 
visit  is  not  a  long  time  to  win  his  confidence — I  shall  be 
leaving  in  a  few  days.  You  can  stay  as  long  as  you  like, 
my  host  and  my  hostess  interjected,  we  would  like  to  see 
you  friends  with  Trusselby  before  you  leave. 

The  next  day  one  of  the  girls  rushed  into  the  room  in 
which  I  was  writing:  Trusselby  is  coming  down  the  hill, 
she  said,  and  I  bolted  out  after  him.  You  sell  ferns, 
don't  you?  I  asked;  he  answered  that  he  did,  and  I 
asked  him  to  get  me  some.  He  said  he  would  and  passed 
on,  and  I  returned  to  the  house  disappointed.  But  luck 
was  with  me,  and  two  evenings  later,  returning  home 
after  dining  with  a  friend,  I  met  Trusselby  at  the  river- 
side, whirling  the  Murrigan  and  apparently  in  a  convivial 
mood.  Well,  Alec,  I  said,  have  you  come  upon  the 
royal  or  the  hart's  tongue  in  your  walks?  You're  the 
gentleman  I  met  the  other  day  up  at  the  old  mill,  aren't 
you?  he  asked.  I  answered  that  I  was,  and  we  walked 
on  together,  myself  making  conversation,  afraid  every 
moment  that  Trusselby  would  say:  I  must  be  wishing 
you  good-night,  sir,  or  I'll  be  locked  out.  But  it  was 
unlikely  that  Trusselby  had  a  latchkey,  it  was  more 
probable  that  he  contemplated  spending  the  night  out, 
which  would  be  no  great  hardship,  for  the  night  was 
warm  and  still,  and  were  it  not  that  a  bench  is  a  hard 
bed,  the  most  home-loving  and  respectable  man  in  West- 
port  might  have  liked  to  have  lain  out  of  doors,  sooner 
or  later  to  be  hushed  to  sleep  by  the  almost  inaudible 
sound  of  water  rippling  past  and  the  soft  cawing  of  sleepy 
rooks.  A  night  it  was  that  would  keep  anybody  out  of 
his  bed  till  midnight  at  least,  except,  perhaps,  a  dry  old 
curmudgeon.     A  breathless  night,  full  of  stars,  and  per- 


70        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

chance  stories,  I  said  to  myself,  and  then  aloud  to  Alec: 
yes,  we  met  up  at  the  old  mill,  but  you  didn't  find  the 
ferns  you  were  looking  for?  Is  it  the  royal  you're  after? 
Alec  asked,  and  I  answered  that  that  was  what  I  had  in 
mind,  and  having  listened  to  Trusselby  for  some  time  on 
the  rarity  of  the  fern,  I  broke  in  with  the  remark  that  I'd 
never  seen  a  finer  blackthorn  than  the  one  he  was  carrying. 
He  had  come  upon  it  in  a  brake,  he  said,  in  a  thicket 
that  often  served  him  as  a  bedroom  in  a  summer's  night 
when  his  quest  for  ferns  had  led  him  far  from  Westport. 
And  it  was  one  morning  at  sunrise  that  I  spied  her;  she 
was  no  thicker  that  morning  than  one  of  my  fingers,  and 
I  said  to  myself :  in  about  three  years'  time  that  stem  will 
be  the  finest  in  Ireland  if  the  top  be  cut  at  once  so  that 
it  may  be  throwing  out  little  knots  and  spikes.  The 
knots  begin  almost  at  the  top,  sir,  and  at  every  knot  there 
is  three  spikes.  You  would  be  lost  if  you  started  counting 
them,  just  as  you  might  be  if  you  were  to  start  on  the 
stars  in  the  skies.  It  was  the  blessing  of  God  that  I 
saw  the  Murrigan  that  morning,  for  a  year  later  it  would 
have  been  to  late  to  cut  the  top.  I  was  only  in  time, 
and  there  it  stayed  for  its  three  years  sprouting,  with 
three  spikes  coming  out  on  every  knot.  You  can  see 
them,  sir,  all  the  way  up.  Faith,  there  isn't  half-an-inch 
of  the  stick  without  its  three  spikes.  But  if  somebody 
had  gone  into  the  brake  and  seen  the  stick  before  you? 
I  asked.  I  had  to  risk  that,  sir,  for  it  takes  three  full 
years  for  the  stick  to  furnish,  and  often  I  didn't  like 
going  to  the  brake  for  fear  a  person  might  spy  me  and 
be  wondering  what  I  was  after  and  perhaps  be  coming 
in  behind  me  and  find  out  the  stick;  but  sure  I  had  the 
luck  all  the  time  and  nobody  came.  In  three  years  to 
the  day,  your  honour,  I  was  down  in  the  dingle  cutting 
my  stick,  my  heart  filled  with  joy  so  furnished  was  it. 
Mind  you,  sir,  the  seasoning  of  a  blackthorn  isn't  under- 
stood by  every  man,  for  when  you've  cut  your  stick  you 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        71 

must  season  it,  and  the  place  I  was  living  in  then  had  a 
fine  old  chimney  with  a  flue  inside  of  it  on  which  you 
could  rest  a  stick,  and  there  the  Murrigan  rested  sea- 
soning. After  six  good  months  I  took  it  down  and 
gave  it  a  rub  with  an  oil  rag,  and  I'll  tell  you,  mister, 
it  was  good  for  sore  eyes  to  see  the  way  it  was  coming 
up.  Take  a  look  at  it  yourself  now  and  tell  me,  is  there 
a  bit  of  Spanish  mahogany  in  the  country  is  its  equal  for 
colour.  To  this  I  agreed,  and  asked:  is  that  the  reason 
you  call  it  the  Murrigan?  Well,  it  isn't,  your  honour. 
Do  you  see,  Murrigan  means  "great  queen"  in  the  Irish, 
and  my  stick  here  is  the  queen  of  the  fair  this  many  a  day. 
The  stick  knows  it  too,  for  if  I'm  not  at  the  fair  off  goes 
the  Murrigan  without  me;  I  look  round  in  the  morning, 
but  not  a  stick  can  I  see,  so  I  say:  the  Murrigan's  gone, 
and  she'll  be  breaking  the  head  of  some  poor  chap  out  of 
sheer  light-heartedness  and  divilment.  That's  the  way  it 
does  be,  sir,  for  after  she's  gone  there's  somebody  has  a 
cracked  head  somewhere.  No  one  knows  who  breaks  it, 
barring  the  Murrigan,  and  she  tells  nobody,  but  just  flies 
back  unbeknownst  to  anybody,  and  finds  her  old  place 
in  the  corner  just  as  any  creature  would.  And  there  I 
find  her,  waiting  for  me.  Have  a  look  at  the  Murrigan, 
sir,  for  you'll  never  see  another  like  her.  She's  as 
beautifully  ornamented  as  the  Brooch  of  Tara  itself,  and 
she  has  the  finest  colour  in  Ireland  or  out  of  Ireland. 

Faith  and  troth  I  never  did.  So  the  Murrigan  goes  to 
the  fair  by  herself? 

She  does  so,  your  honour,  and  she  flies  round  the  heads 
of  the  people,  urging  them  on  the  way  the  old  Murrigan 
used  to  do  when  Brian  Boru  was  in  it,  waking  up  the 
spirit  of  fight  in  them.  The  Murrigan  whirls  like  an 
eagle  over  the  heads  of  the  people,  prodding  them  here 
and  poking  them  there,  and  putting  them  at  each  other. 
When  I'm  there,  and  the  Murrigan  with  me,  I  feel  my 
hand  rise  up  and  my  head  is  that  elated  I  don't  know 


72        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

whether  it's  me  or  the  Murrigan  is  doing  the  deeds,  and 
I  don't  know  if  the  stars  that  are  in  my  head  aren't 
thicker  and  twice  as  thick  than  they  are  in  the  sky.  All 
I  can  see  is  the  Murrigan  about  me  and  she  whirling  like 
a  bird,  but  never  leaving  me  five  fingers;  a  faithful  thing 
the  Murrigan,  bless  her  soul,  and  she  saved  my  life  many 
a  time,  good  luck  to  her ! 

Trusselby  kissed  his  blackthorn  and  we  leaned  our 
backs  against  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  looking  up  into 
the  sky,  the  town  asleep,  nothing  to  be  heard  about  us 
but  the  ripple  of  the  river.  Trusselby  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  me,  and  I  wondered  of  what  he  could  be 
thinking,  of  some  battle  long  ago,  I  thought,  in  which 
doubtless  the  Murrigan  played  a  great  part,  and  seeing 
a  smile  playing  over  his  bland,  almost  holy  face,  I  said: 
there  used  to  be  great  fighting  long  ago?  It  was  about 
fighting  I  was  thinking,  your  honour,  a  great  fair  at 
Castlebar,  when  there  were  more  two-year-olds  than  three- 
year-olds  about. 

To  check  the  story  that  was  on  his  lips  with  a  question 
would  have  been  fatal,  so  I  held  my  peace,  hoping  to 
learn  whether  the  fair  was  lacking  in  two-year-old  bul- 
locks or  two-year-old  colts  and  fillies. 

He  began  again  after  a  pause.  You  see,  sir,  in  the 
old  times  when  your  ancestors  were  in  it,  God  rest  their 
souls,  in  the  days  of  your  grandfather,  there  was  an 
O'Brien  sold  a  heifer  to  a  Fitzgerald  for  a  two-year-old, 
but  the  heifer  itself  was  a  three-year-old;  and  the  next 
fair  day  there  was  a  fight  between  Fitzgerald  and  O'Brien; 
and  at  the  next  fair  the  Fitzgerald  brothers  and  the 
O'Brien  brothers  were  fighting;  and  the  fair  day  after 
that  the  cousins  were  in  the  fight,  and  after  the  cousins 
the  friends  came  in  on  one  side  and  the  other,  until  it 
was  a  dangerous  thing  to  hold  any  fair  in  the  country  at 
all,  so  great  was  the  fighting;  after  whacking  with  all 
the  blackthorns  in  the  country  over  all  the  skulls  in  the 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        73 

country  for  more  than  fifty  years  the  war  finished,  and  it 
was  only  at  the  heel  of  the  hunt  that  I  strolled  in  one 
fair  day  to  Castlebar.  There  was  a  man  there,  and  some- 
body made  a  cake  of  his  skull  with  a  tap  of  a  stick. 
Nobody  knew  who  did  it.  He  said  it  was  the  policeman, 
and  he  took  out  a  summons  against  the  policeman.  Well, 
I  was  a  witness  in  the  case,  your  honour,  and  I  couldn't 
see  an  innocent  man  condemned  even  if  he  was  a  peeler 
itself.  When  I  came  before  the  magistrate  he  asked  if  I 
was  standing  by  at  the  time.  I  was,  your  Worship,  says 
I;  and  he  says:  was  it  the  policeman  broke  the  man's 
head?  and  I  said:  it  was  not,  your  Worship;  the  policeman 
didn't  hit  the  man  that  tap.  A  tap,  you  call  it,  said  the 
man,  Michael  Joyce  was  his  name,  and  he  lifted  up  the 
bloody  bandage  that  was  upon  his  brow.  'Tis  more  than 
a  tap,  your  Worship,  says  I,  it's  a  clout;  but  tap  or  clout, 
it  wasn't  the  policeman  gave  it  to  him.  You're  on  your 
oath,  Alec  Trusselby,  he  said.  And  I  said:  before  God?, 
and  I  gave  a  swear  that  it  wasn't  the  policeman.  Now 
what  do  you  think  but  the  magistrate  was  looking  into 
Joyce's  face,  and  he  saw  three  little  weeney  holes  around 
his  eye,  and  he  took  notice  of  them  three  little  holes,  and 
when  I  picked  up  the  Murrigan  and  was  going  out  of  the 
box  he  said:  let  me  have  a  look  at  your  stick,  Trusselby, 
so  I  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  said:  wasn't  it  you  gave  the 
man  the  tap?  And  I  said  :  it  was  so,  your  Worship.  Tell 
me,  says  he,  why  did  you  strike  that  blow?  So  I  ups 
and  I  told  him  the  story  of  the  two-year-olds  and  the 
three-year-olds.  Which  was  he,  said  the  magistrate,  was 
he  a  two-year-old  or  a  three-year-old?  Your  Worship, 
says  I,  he  was  like  myself,  he  was  a  two-year-old.  And 
why  did  you  assault  and  batter  the  man?  Well,  you  see, 
your  Worship,  says  I,  there  was  only  a  few  of  us  in  that 
fair.  We  was  outnumbered  altogether  by  the  three-year- 
olds,  and  Joyce  yonder  was  saying  he'd  like  well  to  see 
the  man  who'd  tread  on  the  tail  of  his  coat,  and  seeing 


74        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

that  there  would  be  a  fight  in  which  we  might  be  worsted 
I  just  gave  him  a  tap  to  make  him  quiet  like,  and  to  keep 
him  out  of  harm's  way. 

So  that's  the  story  of  the  Murrigan?  It  is,  your  honour, 
I've  told  you  the  whole  of  it.  A  wonderful  stick  she  is; 
look  at  her;  every  knob  with  three  little  spikes  like  the 
blessed  shamrock  that  St  Patrick  picked  so  that  he  would 
be  able  to  explain  the  Holy  Trinity  to  the  pagans.  A 
beautiful  stick,  I  said,  and  a  very  interesting  story. 
You  know  many  stories,  Alec,  and  can  tell  them  better 
than  any  man  now  living.  It's  puffing  me  up  with  pride 
and  goster  you'd  be,  your  honour,  and  after  reminding 
him  that  he  had  promised  to  bring  me  some  beech  and 
oak  ferns  we  parted,  myself  regretting  that  my  shyness 
had  prevented  me  from  asking  Alec  to  tell  me  a  story. 
The  night  is  fine,  I  said,  and  he  was  in  the  humour;  he 
wouldn't  have  refused,  but  I've  missed  my  chance  unless 
I  fortune  to  meet  him  again  before  leaving  Westport. 

It  was  two  days  afterwards  that  I  met  Trusselby  speed- 
ing down  the  road  from  the  woods,  his  hands  full  of  ferns, 
and  accosting  him  with  a  pleasant  good-morning  and  a 
reference  to  our  talk  by  the  bridge  under  the  elm-trees  I 
invited  him  to  come  up  to  the  high  wood  with  me.  You 
may  have  overlooked  some  ferns,  I  said.  He  did  not 
answer,  but  his  eyes  said  plainly  enough  that  he  didn't 
believe  he  had  overlooked  any.  Well,  come  with  me,  I 
said.  If  we  find  some  ferns  so  much  the  better,  if  we 
don't  I'll  reward  you  for  your  afternoon  all  the  same. 
Well,  if  it  will  please  your  honour,  I'll  come  up  with  you. 
We  found  no  ferns,  but,  as  if  to  compensate  me  for  my 
factitious  disappointment,  Alec  proposed  to  go  to  Eanaidi 
to  search  for  the  royal,  and,  after  visiting  all  the  moist 
banks  and  hollows  of  the  town-land,  we  returned  with 
some  fine  specimens  of  beech  and  oak  ferns,  some  speci- 
mens of  the  hart's  tongue — a  beautiful  tall  fern  flowing 
out  like  a  ribbon,    Alec's    own    description  of  it — and 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        75 

in  our  hearts  the  hope  that  on  another  day  we  might 
be  more  fortunate  and  come  upon  the  royal.  And  to  the 
gate  of  my  friend's  house  Alec  continued  to  assure  me 
that  it  had  been  heard  of  between  Ilanaidi  and  Castlebar. 
At  the  wicket  I  gave  him  to  understand  that  I  was  ready 
when  he  was  for  a  day  in  the  woods  and  fields.  Till 
to-morrow,  were  my  last  words  to  him,  and  as  soon  as 
they  were  spoken  my  face  changed  expression,  for  Ilanaidi 
was  four  or  five  miles  from  Westport,  and  there  and  back 
would  be  a  long  way  for  a  man  of  letters. 


CHAPTER  17. 

DID  Alec  tell  you  any  stories?  my  friend  asked,  and 
his  short,  ironical  laugh  jarred  a  little.  No;  I  heard 
no  stories,  but  patience  is  the  virtue  of  the  folk-lorist.  You 
don't  mean  that  you're  going  for  another  tramp  with  Alec? 
Yes,  we  start  to-morrow  at  nine.  Well,  you're  an  extraor- 
dinary fellow,  my  host  said.  Every  man  is  extraordinary 
to  his  fellow,  I  answered;  our  quests  are  different;  and  the 
next  day  I  went  forth  again,  to  return  with  an  increased 
knowledge  of  ferns  but  without  any  stories.  Indeed,  I 
had  almost  begun  to  believe  that  a  joke  was  being  put 
upon  me.  It  was  often  on  my  tongue  to  say:  in  the 
winter  evenings  I  suppose  you  tell  stories  in  the  cottages 
but  I  had  restrained  myself,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  it 
was  to  break  through  my  studied  reserve  that  he  began  to 
speak,  some  days  later,  of  Liadin  and  Curithir,  saying  they 
used  to  meet  by  the  druid  stone  under  which  we  were  now 
sitting  eating  the  food  we  had  brought  with  us.  And 
who  may  they  be?  I  asked.  You  don't  read  their  names 
in  the  stories  that  are  going  round  about  old  Ireland, 
he  answered,  but  'tis  many  and  many's  the  time  I've 


76        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

heard  my  father  say  that  there  wasn't  the  like  of  that 
pair  for  the  making  of  poems. 

The  names  seemed  to  kindle  a  new  personality  in  him. 
The  lantern  is  lighted,  I  said;  we  shall  see  whither  it 
leads  us. 

In  the  years  back,  he  continued,  it  was  a  favourite  story 
with  the  people,  but  they  don't  care  much  about  it  here. 
It  is  out  of  their  minds  now  like  the  rest  of  the  old 
shanachies,  and  all  they  have  a  taste  for  is  the  yarns  they 
do  be  reading  in  the  newspapers  and  the  like;  stuff  with- 
out any  diet  in  them.  They  are  not  like  the  story  I'm 
talking  of,  the  story  of  Liadin  and  Curithir.  But  I 
would  be  wearying  your  honour  with  it.  You  might  not 
be  caring  for  old  stories.  There's  nothing  to  my  mind 
better  than  an  old  story,  I  answered.  The  birds  are 
singing  overhead;  the  time  is  for  story-telling;  go  on, 
Alec. 


CHAPTER  18. 

WELL,  since  your  honour  is  so  pleasant  I'll  tell  it.  At 
the  first  going  off,  let  you  know  that  Liadin  and 
Curithir  were  two  great  poets,  as  great  as  any  that  ever 
went  the  round  in  Ireland,  though  there  has  been  more 
talk  about  others  than  about  them.  Usheen  was  the  big- 
gest of  the  lot,  and  I'm  not  comparing  Liadin  and  Curithir 
to  himself.  All  the  same  Curithir  was  a  fine  poet  and 
Liadin  wasn't  far  behind  him  for  the  telling  of  stories 
and  the  singing  of  songs  in  the  courts  of  the  kings,  and 
the  like,  where  they'd  all  be  clamouring  and  shouting 
for  her  at  the  end  of  their  feasts.  She  was  from  Corka- 
guiney,  or,  as  they  call  it  now,  the  County  Cork,  and  she 
was  on  her  way  there  when  she  met  Curithir,  who  was  on 
his  rounds  to  the  west  and  would  be  going  north  shortly 
with  his  thousand  stories,  for  he  had  a  stiff er  memory  than 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        77 

Liadin's,  although  his  songs  weren't  as  soothing  to  men 
after  drinking  a  gallon  or  more  of  ale.  A  gallon  was 
nothing  to  people  in  those  days!  And  so  it  was  with 
these  two  that  I  am  telling  your  honour  about,  and 
they  sharing  the  glory  of  Ireland  between  them. 

Every  spring  of  the  year  they  would  be  passing  this 
stone,  beside  which  your  honour  is  lying,  as  they  were 
bound  to  go,  it  being  the  mereing.  And  every  time  they 
passed  it  Liadin  said  to  herself:  Curithir  knows  more 
poems  than  I  do  but  my  own  songs  are  sweeter  than 
Curithir's.  And  every  time  Curithir  passed  it  he  said: 
many's  the  time  I've  gone  by  here  thinking  to  meet 
Liadin,  whose  songs  make  game  men  of  all  men,  though 
what  they  be  at  is  love  or  war,  strutting  and  striving 
to  outdo  one  and  t'other,  trailing  their  coats  like  a 
cock  his  wing.  She  passes  this  way  every  year  like  I 
do  myself,  Curithir  said;  and  we  always  missing  each 
other  as  if  it  was  the  will  of  God.  And  while  he  was 
thinking  away  like  I'm  telling  you,  a  feeling  came  over 
him  that  it  would  be  well  for  him  to  bide  his  time,  it 
being  about  the  season  that  she  would  be  on  her  way 
to  the  south.  Nor  had  he  long  to  wait,  for  before  the 
light  was  gone  he  saw  two  women  coming  through  the 
dusk,  and  he  knew  them  to  be  Liadin  and  her  tiring 
woman,  for  no  one  else  would  be  wandering  through 
a  lonesome  place  at  nightfall,  unless  it  was  herdsmen 
that  were  come  to  bring  the  cows  home  for  the  milk 
to  be  drawn  out  of  them.  Isn't  it  true,  says  Curithir,  to 
himself,  she  is  coming  to  touch  this  stone  like  everybody 
that  travels  north  or  south?  but  though  he  said  to  himself 
— it  is  she — he  wasn't  sure  that  it  was,  and  his  heart  was 
fluttering  as  if  it  would  burst  his  breast  open  and  lay 
him  stiff  before  her.  With  every  step  she  took  the  cold 
sweat  was  starting  on  his  forehead,  and  his  face  was 
gone  as  pale  as  the  grass  beyond  will  be  in  the  heel  of 
the  year;  and  then,  as  she  came  nearer,  and  the  sight 


78        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

of  her  face  became  plain,  a  great  swimming  came  behind 
his  eyes  and  he  might  have  fallen,  she  was  that  beautiful. 
He  said :  her  body  is  like  a  first  night's  snow,  her  hair 
is  curly  as  the  wool  on  a  ram's  head,  her  lips  are  red 
as  the  rowan  berry,  and  her  voice  is  sweet  and  low  like 
the  wind  whispering  among  the  reeds  when  the  summer 
is  coming  in. 

At  last  I  am  looking  at  yourself,  Curithir,  and  it  is  not 
too  soon  that  I  set  my  eyes  on  you,  for  every  spring-time, 
a  day,  or  at  the  most  a  week,  has  been  coming  between 
our  two  bodies  and  our  two  souls.  Faith,  Liadin  of  the 
songs,  I've  been  thinking  that  myself,  and  it  was  a  good 
thought  bade  me  a  while  back  to  wait  here  where  I  am  lest 
you  might  be  passing.  Do  you  hear  that,  Lomna  Druth 
and  Curithir  asked,  turning  from  Liadin  to  his  dwarf 
who  was  cocked  up  on  the  druid  stone  with  the  poet's 
singing  robe  in  a  purple  bag  lying  beside  him.  I've  half 
a  mind  to  leave  you  cocked  up  there,  so  that  you  may  be 
breaking  one  of  your  little  legs  trying  to  climb  down,  or 
if  there  be  no  heart  in  you  to  dare  to  climb  down,  to 
die  up  there,  and  you  howling  for  a  bite  or  a  sup  and  none 
coming.  But  my  happiness  is  so  great  now  that  I'll  even 
forgive  you  for  urging  me  to  my  journey  and  making  me 
miss  her  whom  I've  been  waiting  for  this  long  time,  and 
who  is  before  us  now.  He  would  have  said  more  than 
that  to  Lomna  Druth,  for  he  was  angry  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  been  near  to  missing  Liadin  again.  But  at 
the  sight  of  her  there  was  no  more  thought  in  him  for 
Lomna  Druth,  and  turning  from  the  ugly  little  fellow  he 
stood  gazing  and  gaping  at  the  beautiful  woman  before 
him  without  a  word  to  say  to  her,  for  his  throat  was  like 
a  lime-kiln  and  hers  was  hardly  better.  A  spell  seemed 
to  be  on  the  two  of  them,  caused  by  the  long  waiting  and 
by  the  spring  of  the  year.  At  last  she  got  out  the  words : 
Brigit,  my  tiring  woman,  was  to  sleep  here  by  this  stone. 
But  if  you  and  the  Lomna  Druth  have  chosen  this  place 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        79 

for  your  bed  we  would  not  be Faith,  said  Curithir, 

wouldn't  it  be  the  poor  thing  if  we  could  not  spend  one 
night  listening  to  the  stories  that  every  person  in  Ireland 
has  heard  but  our  two  selves  alone. 

But  not  a  story,  nor  the  beginning  of  a  story,  could 
either  tell  the  other,  so  great  was  the  longing  and  the  un- 
easiness and  the  torment  that  was  in  them.  While  they 
were  that  way  the  Lomna  Druth  was  snoring  away  like  a 
stuck  pig,  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  and  the  moon  staring 
down  his  gullet;  nor  was  Brigit  far  behind  him,  and  the 
noise  them  two  were  making  with  their  snores  and  their 
snorts  put  all  the  stories  out  of  Curithir's  head  so  that  he 
could  not  remember  one  of  them  at  all  and  was  stumbling 
and  forgetting  himself  until  Liadin  took  pity  on  him.  So 
she  said:  let  us  leave  these  people  where  they  are  and 
we  will  go  and  look  out  for  a  quiet  place  in  the  wood 
where  we  can  talk.  He  knew  what  was  in  her  mind, 
and  got  on  his  feet,  and  she  came  after  him  saying:  I 
cannot  go  with  you,  and  he  answering:  you  can,  you  can, 
indeed,  overcoming  her  with  the  story  of  a  place  where 
the  grass  was  thick  under  the  larches:  where,  he  said,  we 
shall  be  missing  the  droppings  of  the  rooks,  for  they  have 
their  nests  higher  up  on  the  hill-side.  So  cosening  was 
his  talk  she  could  not  say  no  to  him,  and  that  night  they 
lay  with  their  lips  seeking  each  other's  lips  always,  his 
hand  never  wearying  of  the  shape  of  her  body,  nor  his 
eyes  wearying  either,  for  the  moon  shining  through  the 
tasselled  branches  gave  light  enough  for  him  to  enjoy 
her  with  his  eyes.  So  he  not  wearying  and  she  nothing 
loth  spent  the  night  together,  taking  their  joy  of  each 
other  until  the  rooks  began  to  clatter  out  of  the  high 
wood  and  went  away  one  by  one  and  two  by  two  down 
the  valley  filled  with  mist  for  all  the  world  like  a  lake. 
No  person,  he  said,  looking  from  her,  would  know  the 
mist  from  a  lake  that  had  come  in  the  night  to  divide  us, 
and  she  said:  a  lake  come  to  divide  us!  And  he  answered 


80        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

her  reproof:  no,  we're  together  for  as  long  as  this  flesh 
lasts.  On  speaking  these  words  there  came  a  piercing 
in  him  with  the  knowledge  that  he  would  lose  Liadin. 
How  he  would  lose  her  he  did  not  know;  but  there  was 
fear  in  him  that  he  would  lose  her  surely.  It  was  in  her 
too,  but  being  a  woman  she  kept  the  thought  to  herself. 

My  Brigit  and  your  Lomna  Druth,  she  said,  will  come 
this  way  searching  for  us;  it  would  be  as  well  that  we 
should  go  to  them  instead.  It  would  be  as  well  indeed,  he 
replied  angrily,  but  I  wish  all  the  same  that  the  warning 
had  not  come  from  you,  and  without  saying  any  more 
they  went  back  in  search  of  their  servants.  Curithir, 
guessing  Liadin's  thoughts,  said:  from  this  day  our  life 
will  be  lonesome  for  us  two,  and  not  one  of  us  knows  how 
we  lived  our  lives  up  to  this  day,  and  we  not  seeing  each 
other  every  day  and  every  night;  so  hazy  is  it  all  that  I 
do  believe  it  was  but  a  dream  that  a  reality  broke  last 
night.  I'm  feeling  like  that  myself,  she  said,  but  I  would 
have  you  make  your  meaning  plainer  to  me.  Says  he: 
is  it  not  plain  enough  what  I  say  that  you  are  the  greatest 
poetess  Ireland  has  ever  known  and  I  am  the  greatest 
poet;  let  us  go  off  together  for  good  and  all,  and  we  will 
have  a  son  to  our  name  who'll  be  greater  than  the  two 
of  us.  I  like  well,  she  answered,  that  you  should  be 
thinking  such  things,  but  if  I  said  yes  to  that  all  my  trysts 
would  be  broken  and  your  trysts  too,  and  you  have  many 
of  them  in  the  north  and  I  elsewhere.  We  have  to  keep 
our  bonds  with  the  people  in  whose  houses  we've  eaten 
and  whose  presents  we've  taken.  And  this  seeming  to 
Curithir  well  spoken,  he  kicked  his  dwarf  out  of  slumber 
and  said:  come,  follow  me;  the  day  has  begun  and  our 
way  is  northward.  With  the  same  words  but  without  the 
kick  Liadin  awoke  Brigit :  put  the  harp  on  your  back  and 
sling  the  bag  with  my  singing  robes  over  your  arm  and 
be  after  me  quickly,  for  there's  a  long  road  in  front  of  us. 
Brigit  did  as  she  was  bid  and  was  soon  ahead  of  her 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        81 

mistress,  whose  thoughts  were  not  on  the  road  before  her 
but  back  in  the  pleasant  covert  where  so  much  delight 
had  come  to  her.  And  every  step  she  took  away  from 
the  place  the  nearer  it  was  to  her,  so  that  to  get  rid  of 
the  languish  that  was  interfering  with  her  journey  she 
began  a  cronan  and  a  singing  to  herself,  and  it  was  the 
way  that  the  words  and  the  tune  came  unknown  to  her, 
word  for  word  and  note  by  note,  so  that  she  wondered. 
The  like  of  this  never  happened  to  me  before,  she  mur- 
mured, though  the  verses  usually  came  easily  to  me; 
nor  was  the  first  stretch  of  the  road  they  were  going 
done  with  when  lo!  and  behold  you!  a  second  and  a 
third  song  came  to  her  and  she  not  looking  for  them  or 
thinking  about  them  at  all !  Other  things  she  was  think- 
ing of.  Mistress,  you'll  be  making  the  king  wait  for 
the  new  songs  you  promised  last  year.  But  to  Brigit's 
screechings  Liadin  gave  no  heed.  She  continued  in  her 
thoughts  until  they  arrived  at  the  Court,  where  there  was 
a  great  gathering  to  meet  her.  It  was  proud  she  was 
that  time,  and  when  she  took  the  harp  from  Brigit  she 
made  a  song  about  love  under  the  larches  the  way  that 
everyone  who  heard  her  that  night  was  troubled  under 
their  robes  and  stood  gaping  and  gazing,  every  man 
looking  at  every  other  man's  wife  and  every  woman  with 
her  eyes  at  another  woman's  husband.  Wherever  she 
went  it  was  the  same  story,  from  king  to  serving  boy, 
men  were  stabbing  each  other  in  the  streets,  and  women 
tearing  each  other's  hair  in  the  parlours,  with  Liadin 
standing  by  unconcerned  about  the  mischief  she  was 
making;  rejoicing  maybe  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
for  she  was  wild  and  raging  wild  that  she  hadn't  had 
a  second  night  with  Curithir  under  the  larches.  A  year 
is  a  long  time,  said  she,  but  if  I  kissed  another  man  that 
would  spoil  it  all,  and  as  soon  as  any  man  tried  to  put  a 
hand  on  her  she  out  with  a  knife  on  him.  Let  you  be 
listening  to  my  songs,  she  would  say,  and  let  you  be  off 


m        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

and  do  the  same  thing  underneath  the  larches,  but  let 
me  be,  for  in  this  world  everyone  keeps  to  their  own 
people,  the  kings  with  the  queens,  the  poets  with  the 
poetesses,  and  so  on  that  way. 

The  kissing  and  the  strife  continued  until  the  priest 
hearing  that  bad  work  was  being  done  in  the  courts  said : 
Ireland  will  go  back  to  the  devil  and  the  druids  if  we 
don't  put  a  stop  to  that  one,  and  from  that  day  out  they 
gave  her  neither  peace  nor  ease,  but  kept  on  talking  to 
her,  and  preaching  to  her  and  barking  at  her  about  her 
soul  that  would  be  lasting  always,  and  about  the  wasting 
of  the  flesh  and  the  wasting  of  all  things  in  the  world.  It 
was  the  truth  they  were  telling  her,  and  she  did  well  to 
listen  to  them,  for  who  have  we  but  the  clergy  to  come 
to  us  when  we're  on  the  broad  of  our  back,  on  the  last 
day,  with  oil  to  rub  on  our  feet,  and  strong  prayers  for  the 
resting  of  our  souls?  The  time  will  come  to  you,  Liadin, 
said  the  priests,  when  your  voice  will  be  no  better  than 
the  screeching  of  gravel  under  a  door,  and  your  fine  hair 
will  be  no  better  than  seaweed,  and  it  lank  and  stinking; 
and  your  teeth,  if  they  are  little  itself  and  like  the  snow- 
drops this  day,  will  one  day  be  lengthy  and  yellow,  and 
after  that  maybe  there  won't  be  a  tooth  in  your  head  at  all. 
And  not  a  day  but  will  see  the  vanishing  of  a  bit  of  your 
beauty  until  there  is  none  left,  said  the  priest.  It's  that 
way  and  with  them  arguments  they  talked  to  her,  and  there 
was  no  stopping  them  once  they  began;  and  then  you  will 
be  thinking,  Liadin,  of  the  fair  hair,  about  the  mischief 
you  did  in  Erin  and  in  the  world,  and  about  your  wantoning 
in  the  dry  ditches  in  the  summer  nights,  and  the  fighting 
and  battling  you  set  going  up  and  down  the  streets  of 
the  five  provinces.  Repent  while  you've  got  the  chance, 
said  they,  or  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you.  What  would  you 
have  me  do?  said  she.  Is  it  to  be  hanging  up  my  harp  on 
a  nail  at  the  back  of  a  door,  and  leaving  it  there?  she 
asked  them.     And  they  said:  it  wasn't  that,  but  to  put 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        83 

a  good  tune  on  the  harp  and  to  make  songs  about  the  love 
of  God  and  the  glory  of  the  holy  saints  and  angels:  that, 
said  themselves,  is  what  we'd  have  you  do.  But  if  the  sort 
of  songs  you  like  do  not  come  into  my  mind,  what  way 
will  I  be  singing  them  and  I  thinking  of  other  things? 
she  asked.  And  that  was  her  gait  all  the  time,  till  one 
day  a  great  man,  Fergus  by  name,  took  his  death-blow 
with  a  bill-hook  in  a  dispute  and  a  quarrel  with  another 
man  about  her  singing. 

It  was  after  that  she  began  to  listen  to  the  priest: 
it's  a  filthy,  bad,  black  passion  is  in  yourself,  and  all 
for  another  singer,  a  wanderer  and  a  story-teller  of  your 
own  kidney.  The  children  you'll  get  that  way  wouldn't 
be  saints  at  all  but  little  devils,  and  the  sins  they  com- 
mit will  be  added  to  your  own  ones  for  the  punish- 
ment. And  so  they  kept  at  her  until  they  got  the  girl 
frightened.  What  would  I  be  doing  to  escape  the  punish- 
ment? she  asked,  and  the  words  warmed  the  priest's  heart, 
for  he  knew  that  he'd  got  her  tight.  There  is  only  the 
one,  he  said,  and  that's  the  vow.  And  she,  being  shook 
in  her  mind  and  tormented,  took  a  vow  to  break  with 
Curithir,  but  not  content  with  that,  the  priest  would  have 
had  a  promise  from  her  not  to  as  much  as  see  him.  But 
she  stood  up  to  the  priest  at  that,  saying:  if  I  have 
pledged  a  vow  to  meet  him  at  the  druid's  stone  I  must 
keep  my  vow  to  him,  and  no  amount  of  talking  out  of  the 
priest  could  get  it  into  her  head  that  one  vow  wasn't  as 
good  as  another.  The  priest  promised  that  grace  would 
come  to  her  in  a  convent.  But  who  will  be  getting  me 
out  of  the  convent  when  once  I  am  inside  of  it?  she  asked, 
and  the  priest  wasn't  able  to  answer  that  question,  so  she 
said:  no;  I'll  not  go  into  a  convent  until  I  have  seen 
Curithir,  and  she  stuck  to  that.  The  priest  in  his  turn 
answered  her  stiff  enough  that  if  she  didn't  take  the  pledge 
to  see  Curithir  no  more  she  would  be  clapt  into  a  convent 
with  her  will  or  without  her  will;  so  she  took  the  pledge 


84        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

of  the  priest  with  a  "bad  cess  to  you"  in  her  heart  all  the 
while  she  was  pledging  herself  not  to  keep  her  tryst,  saying 
to  herself:  a  vow  that  is  put  on  a  person  by  force  is  no  vow 
at  all,  which  is  true  enough,  God  knows.  But  a  vow  is  for 
ever  getting  its  grip  on  you  like  a  growing  disease  and 
you're  tied  up  well  before  it's  done  with. 

Not  long  after  that  Liadin  hung  her  harp  up  on  the  nail. 
And  the  king  himself  couldn't  get  a  song  out  of  her,  no 
matter  how  much  he  gave.  As  silent  as  them  old  rocks 
she  was  in  the  king's  hall,  but  when  she  was  alone  she 
could  be  heard  crooning  away  to  herself  at  one  of  the  old 
songs.  She  never  got  to  the  end  of  any  one  of  them,  for 
she  would  start  a  prayer  in  the  middle  of  the  song,  and 
not  being  able  to  go  on  with  the  prayer  either,  the  tears 
would  come  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  That's  the  way  it 
was  with  Liadin,  and  it  was  no  better  with  Curithir.  His 
mind  was  wrapped  up  and  lost  in  the  whiteness  of  Liadin's 
body,  and  that  was,  as  I've  just  told  you,  as  white  and 
whiter  than  a  first  night's  snow,  and  a  smile  would  come 
to  his  lips  when  he  remembered  the  red  of  her  lips  that 
put  him  in  mind  of  the  rowan  berry  he  had  seen  hanging 
over  Cummins'  cell.  Cummins,  I  must  tell  you,  was  a 
hermit,  and  he  lived  that  time  in  an  island  on  Lake 
Carra,  no  distance  from  Ballintubber.  You  know  it  well, 
your  honour.  As  if  these  thoughts  of  Liadin  were  not 
enough,  there  was  the  track  of  her  teeth  in  his  neck,  for 
she  had  bitten  him  and  drew  blood  from  him  the  way  he 
would  never  forget  her  in  his  wanderings.  The  wound 
was  sore  enough,  and  many's  the  time  his  hand  went  to 
it,  and  the  thought  was  never  far  away  that  she  had 
rubbed  some  colour  into  it  that  could  not  be  taken  out 
no  matter  how  many  times  he  might  wash  himself  in  the 
River  Shannon  or  any  other  river.  He  was  glad  of  the 
track  of  her  teeth  in  his  neck,  and  whenever  he  came  to  a 
pool  he  stopped  to  admire  it,  saying:  for  all  the  money  in 
the  world  I  would  not  give  up  these  tracks  of  her  love  for 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        85 

me.  But  misfortune  often  goes  foot  by  foot  with  fortune, 
and  while  he  was  thinking  so  much  about  Liadin  he  forgot 
about  his  stories,  and  as  he  walked  the  road  he  was  always 
striving  to  catch  up  with  them  and  they  always  fleeing 
before  him  the  way  the  clouds  fly  before  the  wind;  some- 
times he  thought  he  had  gotten  them  again,  but  when 
he  stood  up  to  tell  them  there  was  nothing  in  his  head 
but  herself  and  nothing  before  his  eyes,  neither  the  king 
nor  his  court,  but  Liadin's  face  only. 

The  king  in  whose  court  he  was,  knowing  nothing  of 
these  things,  cried  to  his  servants  to  put  Curithir  out  of 
the  gate,  and  Curithir  let  them  do  this  just  as  a  child 
might,  often  enough  not  knowing  what  they  were  doing 
to  him,  so  taken  up  was  he  with  his  memories  of  Liadin. 
And  when  the  gate  was  shut  behind  him  he  didn't  look 
back  but  kept  on  walking  the  road,  not  minding  what  the 
world  was  saying:  the  great  poet,  Curithir,  is  without  a 
story  in  his  head,  and  the  Lomna  Druth,  his  dwarf,  tells 
tales  for  him.  He  travelled  ahead,  wrapped  up  in  his 
dreams,  to  the  next  king's  court;  but  when  he  stood  up  in 
the  hall  before  the  people  it  was  the  same  thing  as  before, 
he  could  only  gaze  and  gape  about  him,  and  when  the 
king  said:  we're  tired  of  waiting  for  your  story,  Curithir 
answered:  I  cannot  remember  any  story.  If  you've  no 
stories  to  tell  us,  you've  no  business  here.  Put  him  out  of 
the  gates.  As  the  servants  were  catching  hold  of  him 
Curithir  said:  I  could  tell  a  story  to  you  and  it  would  be 
better  than  all  the  stories  I've  told  you  before  this.  Tell 
your  tale,  said  the  king.  By  my  faith  and  my  troth  I  can- 
not do  that  until  I've  seen  Liadin.  Liadin  of  the  songs! 
the  king  answered,  and  Curithir  said  it  could  be  no 
one  else,  and  that  he  was  waiting  for  the  springtime  to 
see  her  again. 

The  man  is  a  fool,  said  the  servants;  there  isn't  a  story 
in  his  head.  What  was  it  that  happened  to  you,  Curithir, 
tell  us  that  now?     The  greatest  luck,  said  he,  that  ever 


86        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

happened  to  a  man.  And  he  went  his  way  cheerfully, 
though  he  had  nothing  in  the  wide  world,  barring  the 
memory  of  a  night  he  had  spent  with  Liadin  under  the 
boughs,  and  the  hope  in  his  heart  that  he  might  spend 
another  one  with  her  in  the  same  place,  which  was  a 
poor  enough  life  for  any  man  living  on  alms  and  what- 
ever he  could  find.  It  was  fairly  easy  while  the  sum- 
mer lasted;  it  wasn't  so  easy  when  the  summer  wasted 
into  autumn;  and  it  was  hard  enough  when  autumn 
dwindled  into  the  cold  weather.  But  Curithir  knew 
neither  time  nor  season  until  the  season  of  love  came 
round  again,  and  he  could  say  to  himself:  here  is  the 
month  coming  when  I'll  see  again  Liadin  of  the  beauties. 
And  down  he  knelt,  and  he  prayed  that  God  would  put 
the  stories  that  he  had  forgotten  back  into  his  head  so 
that  he  might  earn  enough  to  dress  himself  and  be  decent 
when  he  would  meet  her.  But  sure  God  took  no  notice 
of  him,  why  would  he  indeed?  and  he  could  remember 
nothing  but  Liadin,  and  he  kept  on  walking  ahead,  not 
seeing  a  thing  in  the  world  but  springtime  only.  There 
wasn't  a  green  branch  he  passed  but  it  put  him  in  mind 
of  the  love  night  that  awaited  him,  and  every  bird 
reminded  him  of  the  same  thing.  He  crossed  from 
Sligo  into  Mayo,  praying  that  his  waiting  for  Liadin  at 
the  druid  stone  might  not  be  long,  and  in  Mayo  his 
heart  gave  a  jump  and  a  leap,  for  there  she  was  at  the 
druid  stone,  and  by  herself,  without  even  the  servant 
Brigit. 

She  got  there  before  me,  so  much  does  she  love  me, 
he  said,  stretching  out  his  arms  towards  her,  and  he 
thinking,  the  poor  man,  that  she  would  run  into  them. 
Great  was  his  grief  indeed  when,  instead  of  running  to 
meet  him,  she  put  the  druid  stone  between  them,  and 
kept  it  there  while  she  told  him,  across  it,  all  that  had 
befallen  her  and  how  things  were.  Is  it  a  dream  I'm 
dreaming,  or  am  I  hag-ridden?  he  said,  and  will  you 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        87 

awaken  me  now,  unless,  indeed,  I'm  to  die  where  I  am  and 
as  I  am?  God  help  me,  Curithir,  she  said,  I've  taken  a 
pledge  to  break  with  you  entirely.  I  was  hard  put  to  it 
to  come  here  this  day  at  all,  and  me  badgered  and  tor- 
mented and  cross-hackled  the  way  I  was.  Will  you 
hear  the  story  of  my  escape  from  the  priests?  From  the 
priests!  he  said,  and  with  that  he  bent  his  face  down 
into  his  hands,  with  nothing  coming  from  him  but  now 
and  then  a  moan  or  a  groan,  or  a  hard  curse  belike,  while 
Liadin  told  her  own  story  and  all  about  the  way  she 
escaped  from  the  priests  of  Corkaguiney.  All  that,  he 
said,  doesn't  matter,  and  nothing  matters  since  we  are 
to  be  parted,  bad  luck  to  the  ones  that  hate  the  poets, 
said  he,  and  it  only  hardened  his  heart  against  the  priests 
to  hear  her  tell  that  Mary's  own  son  had  suffered  on  a 
cross  to  save  the  souls  of  men  and  women.  All  he  could 
do  was  to  moan  out:  the  only  soul  I  have  is  my  love  of 
you,  Liadin,  and  the  only  soul  you  have  is  your  love  of  me. 
Wicked  words,  indeed,  your  honour;  but  the  man  wasn't 
in  his  mind  at  the  time,  so  that  he  could  only  think  of 
the  minute  he  had  and  couldn't  think  at  all  about  the 
eternity  that  was  ahead  of  him.  If  you  tell  me  any 
more,  he  said,  I  shall  be  like  a  tree  knocked  down  by 
a  big  wind.  Aren't  all  my  roots  snapping  under  me? 
And  such  is  my  torment  that  I  cannot  listen  any  longer 
to  that  kind  of  talk.  Hold  your  tongue,  Liadin,  I  tell 
you  now,  and  let  you  be  saying  that  you'll  come  after 
me  into  the  forest,  and  stay  with  me  there,  where  neither 
priest  nor  Protestant  can  find  us,  but  only  the  squirrels 
and  the  forest  cats  and  the  small  kind  birds.  Let  you 
hear  me  out,  Curithir,  she  replied.  Didn't  they  take  the 
pledge  from  you  under  a  threat?  he  asked,  and  she 
answered:  They  did,  indeed,  and  they  said  they  would 
put  me  into  a  nunnery,  and  lock  me  in  it  unless  I  took 
the  pledge;  and  God  knows  it  was  hard  to  get  away  from 
them  to  meet  you  here.    But  a  pledge  is  a  pledge.    What 


88        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

are  you  telling  me?  he  interrupted.  Is  it  that  we're  not 
going  to  lie  together  under  the  boughs  of  that  larch-tree? 
Is  it  to  me,  with  the  mark  of  your  bite,  and  the  track  of 
your  teeth  on  my  shoulder,  that  you're  telling  these  things? 
And  with  that  he  commenced  to  cry,  the  creature.  All 
that  we  done  under  the  larches  is  done,  said  Liadin,  for 
it  would  be  flying  in  God's  face  to  break  a  vow  we  have 
given  to  him.  At  this  Curithir  burst  out  again,  and  the 
tears  dropped  down  on  to  his  cloak  until  it  was  as  wet 
as  if  it  had  been  dragged  in  the  river.  Wringing  wet 
I  am  with  the  tears  you've  drawn  out  of  my  eyes,  but 
no  matter  the  tears,  and  he  continued  like  that  until 
she  came  around  the  other  side  of  the  druid's  stone  to 
try  and  comfort  him,  and  took  his  hand,  saying  they 
might  be  marching  a  bit  of  the  road  together.  The  time 
hasn't  come  for  parting  yet,  were  her  words,  and  it  was 
hand  in  hand  like  that  they  marched  on,  till  Curithir 
said:  we  are  leaving  the  larch-tree  behind  us.  Let  the 
pair  of  us  turn  now,  and  go  back  to  the  larch-tree.  I'll 
not  do  that,  said  she;  and,  tell  me  now,  said  she,  is  there 
a  man  on  the  top  of  the  earth  would  break  a  vow  was 
made  to  God?  Said  he,  if  I  take  you  to  a  holy  man, 
and  a  very  holy  man,  will  you  be  minded  by  him,  and 
will  you  do  as  he  bids  you?  I  will,  in  troth.  Well,  then, 
there's  a  man  on  an  island  in  Lough  Carra,  a  holy  man 
surely,  for  he  has  lived  on  that  island  by  himself  these 
fifty  years.  Cummins,  son  of  Fiachna,  is  his  name.  Let 
us  go  to  him  now,  for  what  better  thing  could  the  young 
people  do  than  go  to  the  old  people  in  their  trouble?  Fine, 
the  island  that  man  lives  on,  not  a  prettier  one  in  Ireland, 
with  birds  and  beasts  flying  and  skipping  in  the  glades, 
waiting  for  the  holy  man,  and  they  following  him  from 
his  cell  to  his  chapel  as  if  they  were  his  children;  which 
they  may  be,  for  as  everything  that  lives,  the  flying  and 
the  crawling  and  those  that  walk  on  four  legs,  and  those 
that  walk  on  two,  are  children  of  the  God  that  made  them. 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        89 

Come,  do  not  delay  any  longer,  Liadin,  for  our  trouble 
is  a  bad  trouble,  and  if  there's  a  man  in  Ireland  can 
cure  us  and  help  us  that  man  is  Cummins  Mac  Fiachna. 
Let  us  be  off  now.  The  walk  will  not  be  long  passing  by, 
for  it's  but  seven  miles  from  here  to  the  Abbey  of  Ballin- 
tubber,  which  was  built  by  Roderick  of  Connaught,  as 
you  know  well.  And  Cummins'  island  is  opposite  the 
shore  of  Cam,  the  great  wood;  you  must  have  heard  tell 
of  it,  for  the  same  place  had  a  bad  name  for  wolves.  Come 
now  with  me  and  we'll  be  beside  the  lake,  calling  for 
Cummins  to  fetch  us  in  his  boat,  before  the  sun  goes 
down  behind  the  Partry  mountains.  And  so  sweet  was 
Curithir's  talk  that  Liadin  could  do  no  less  than  follow 
him,  although  in  her  heart  she  knew  all  the  time  she 
was  doing  wrong.  Sooner  than  she  expected,  they  were 
passing  by  the  skirts  of  the  great  wood  and  going 
down  the  hill-side  and  hollowing  across  the  lake  for 
Cummins.  He  didn't  keep  them  waiting.  Only  three 
times  had  they  to  shout  before  a  boat  was  put  out 
from  the  island,  and  Cummins,  though  he  was  then  past 
seventy,  could  pull  a  good  stroke  as  well  as  another,  and 
in  five  minutes  or  less  he  was  taking  Liadin  and  Curithir 
into  his  boat  and  reading  in  their  faces  that  theirs  was  a 
bad  case  of  love.  He  was  not  minded  to  ask  them  any 
questions  yet,  but  rowed  on  steadily  till  his  boat  was  by 
the  little  quay  that  he  had  built  for  it.  You  seem  in 
great  trouble,  my  poor  friends,  he  said;  and  they 
answered  that  that  was  their  case,  and  sitting  by  the  door 
of  his  cabin,  the  two  of  them  began  talking  together. 

Let  one  of  you  tell  the  story.  And  which  shall  it  be?  the 
hermit  asked.  Let  Liadin  tell  it,  Curithir  answered,  and 
Cummins  said :  I  would  sooner  hear  it  from  her,  though  I 
wouldn't  be  doubting  your  word  either,  Curithir.  All 
the  same  Curithir  was  not  pleased  with  Liadin's  telling 
of  the  story;  he  thought  he  could  have  done  it  better 
himself,  but  he  let  her  go  on  with  it  right  to  the  heel,  and 


90        A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

then  he  went  on  his  knees  before  Cummins,  saying:  is 
there  no  power  on  earth  to  take  away  the  vow  she  entered 
into  against  her  own  free  will?  I  say  there  is  and  that 
you  are  the  man  to  do  it.  Rise  to  your  feet,  my  son, 
Cummins  said,  and  listen  to  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you, 
and  if  you  search  your  own  heart  you  will  find  that  I  am 
not  telling  a  lie  nor  making  a  mistake.  We  have  no 
thought  that  you  would  be  lying  to  us.  Well,  my  son, 
not  lying,  perhaps,  but  making  more  of  the  thing  than 
it  really  is.  Well,  I  will  not  be  doing  that  either, 
but  just  telling  you  the  simple  truth,  which  is,  that 
from  our  childhood  all  things  are  passing  away  from  us. 
The  thoughts  of  our  childhood  die,  and  thoughts  of 
boyhood  enter  into  us;  these  die  themselves  and  the 
thoughts  of  manhood  get  their  grip;  and  these  die  after 
having  their  time.  Our  possessions  and  our  health  pass 
away  from  us;  all  things  pass  away  from  us  except  one 
thing  only,  for  everything  goes  away  except  the  love  of 
God.  Everyone  comes  back  to  the  love  of  God  just  as 
you  yourselves  have  done.  You  have  come  back  to  God 
with  tears,  with  sighs,  and  laments  about  things  that 
would  leave  you  if  you  did  not  leave  them.  This  leave- 
taking  is  a  harder  thing  for  the  man  than  it  is  for  the 
woman,  Mac  Fiachna  said,  for  he  was  great  at  reading 
faces.  And  another  word  to  yourself,  Curithir:  the  bond 
she  has  entered  into  may  lie  sore  upon  her  this  day,  but 
it  will  be  easier  on  her  to-morrow.  Curithir  looked  to 
Liadin,  thinking  that  she  would  say  no  to  the  hermit; 
but  she  stood  saying  nothing,  her  eyes  cast  down  as  if 
she  was  ashamed.  You  see,  my  son,  how  she  stands,  her 
eyes  turned  away  from  you  and  she  in  fear  of  temptation. 
No,  Liadin  cried.  All  you  have  spoken  may  be  the 
truth,  but  that  is  not  the  truth.  I  do  not  fear  temptation. 
Let  that  be  as  it  will  be,  said  Cummins,  I'm  going  to 
put  you  to  the  test  this  day,  and  you  will  see  by  morning 
that  the  love  you  think  is  part  of  yourself,  and  is  going  to 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        91 

last  forever  and  ever,  and  beyond  this  world  and  through 
all  eternity,  is  held  to  your  senses  the  way  a  tree  is  tied 
to  its  roots,  and  as  the  tree's  roots  loosen  so  your  senses 
will  loosen;  take  one  of  these  senses  away  and  some  part 
of  your  love  goes  off  with  it.  You  think  this  is  not  so; 
well,  we  shall  see.  Which  of  our  senses  will  you  take 
from  us?  said  Curithir,  and  the  hermit  answered:  I  will 
put  that  question  to  you — which  will  you  choose  now:  to 
see  each  other  and  not  to  speak,  or  to  speak  and  not  see 
each  other? 

Liadin  and  Curithir  were  of  the  one  mind  about  that, 
and  they  said  it  was  better  to  see  each  other  and  not  to 
speak  than  to  speak  and  not  to  see  each  other.  The 
choice  being  that  way,  the  hermit  brought  them  to  a  hut 
that  was  cut  into  two  rooms  with  a  window  in  the  middle, 
so  that  they  could  look  in  at  each  other.  He  hung  a 
lamp  in  each  room  the  way  they  would  have  light  to 
see  by,  and  he  left  his  altar-boy  with  them  to  see  that 
they  did  not  talk.  Inside  of  five  minutes  they  had  feasted 
their  eyes  enough,  and  turning  away  from  the  window 
each  cried:  it  is  a  tiresome  thing  and  a  silly  thing  to  be 
gazing  and  not  saying  a  word.  Five  minutes,  am  I  saying? 
Three  was  more  like  the  time  that  they  took  pleasure  in 
each  other's  shapes.  In  three  minutes  they  were  as 
weary  as  a  fish  taken  out  of  the  lake  might  be,  and  he 
waggling  at  the  bottom  of  a  boat.  And  looking  at  each 
other,  their  eyes  said  plainly:  eyes  are  no  good  unless  we 
may  be  telling  what  our  eyes  see.  But  they  could  not  do 
this,  for  they  had  given  a  pledge  and  a  vow  to  Cummins 
that  they  would  not  speak,  and  the  altar-boy  was  there 
into  the  bargain.  The  last  words  they  heard  before  the 
door  was  shut  on  them  was  the  hermit  telling  the  boy 
that  if  he  closed  as  much  as  one  eye  he  would  know  about 
it,  and  be  made  to  feel  his  fault  with  a  cudgel  cut  from 
the  hazel  copse  in  front  of  Cummins'  cell.  Out  of  fear 
of  the  stick,  not  an  eye  did  that  boy  close  for  the  livelong 


92        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

night,  and  in  the  morning  the  three  of  them  were  worn  out 
with  watching;  and  when  the  hermit  came  to  unlock  the 
door  the  words  he  heard  were:  father,  our  choice  was 
a  bad  one;  we  should  have  chosen  to  speak  and  not  to 
see.  Now  is  that  so?  said  the  hermit.  You  will  have  that 
test  to-night,  and  as  the  pair  of  you  have  such  a  wish  to  be 
talking  together,  I'll  give  you,  Curithir,  this  side  of  the 
island  to  regale  your  eyes  with,  and  Liadin  she  shall  have 
the  other,  and  you  must  pledge  your  word  to  me  that 
you  will  keep  the  trees  between  you  both,  and  that 
there  shall  be  no  whispering  through  the  branches. 
You'll  have  plenty  of  that  to-night;  keep  your  talk 
for  the  dark  hours  and  your  eyes  for  the  light.  You 
see,  your  honour,  Church  Island,  the  name  it  is  known 
by  to-day,  is  the  largest  island  on  Lake  Carra,  and 
it  has  about  ten  acres,  maybe  a  dozen,  and  among  the 
trees  are  tall  rowans  and  ash  and  some  beeches.  I  know 
the  island  from  my  boyhood,  I  interrupted;  but  go  on 
with  your  story.  Well,  your  honour,  I  have  come  to  the 
most  interesting  part  of  it.  I  wouldn't  be  too  hard  upon 
you,  Cummins  said;  you  won't  be  the  whole  day  without 
seeing  one  another.  At  Mass  you  may  meet  again,  for 
I'll  offer  up  prayers  to  preserve  you  from  temptation  this 
night  that  is  to  come,  and  all  other  nights,  if  you  like  it. 
My  Mass  will  be  in  two  hours  from  now,  and,  until  then,  I 
shall  be  praying  for  you  both  and  praying  for  myself  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  world,  for  it  is  the  world  needs  our  pray- 
ers to  save  it  from  God's  anger,  he  being  distressed  at  the 
wickedness  that  is  going  on  among  you  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end. 

Listen,  both  of  you,  now,  to  what  I  am  saying.  For 
the  next  two  hours  I'll  be  saying  my  prayers,  and  after 
that  I'll  be  reading  the  Mass  that  you  are  to  hear  in  the 
chapel,  and  after  that  I'll  be  in  my  cell,  beautifying 
the  scrolls,  the  missal  I  am  painting,  my  present  to  the 
Abbot  of  Ballintubber,  to  whose  kindness  I  am  indebted 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY        93 

for  this  comfortable  island.  I  cannot  be  away  from  my 
work  an  afternoon  if  I  would  finish  it  this  year;  and  while 
I  am  at  work,  weaving  garlands  and  finding  nooks  and 
corners  for  the  birds  and  the  weasels  and  the  squirrels 
and  badgers  and  the  foxes  of  my  little  domain,  my  cat 
will  be  watching  for  mice  as  patient  as  myself.  I  am 
telling  you  this,  for  I  wish  you  both  to  imitate  me  and 
my  cat,  each  on  different  sides  of  the  island. 

It's  a  hard  test  and  a  cruel  one  you're  putting  us  to  this 
day,  said  Curithir,  for  we  are  two  young  people  and  you  are 
an  old  man.  That  is  true,  Cummins  answered  him.  The 
old  forget  a  great  deal  of  youth's  needs  and  feelings,  and  it 
is  truer  still  that  the  young  know  nothing  at  all  of  what  the 
old  people  are  thinking.  You  see,  Curithir,  Liadin  makes 
no  complaint,  and  he  asked  Curithir  why  he  didn't  take 
example  by  her,  but  the  tears  were  flowing  down  Curithir's 
cheeks  one  after  the  other  as  rain  falls  from  the  eaves, 
and  there  was  no  voice  in  him,  so  thick  were  his  sighs. 
Away  with  you  now,  the  hermit  cried,  and  let  each  keep 
to  his  and  to  her  side  of  the  island,  and  any  transgressions 
will  be  reported  to  me  by  my  little  altar-boys.  As  he 
said  these  words  Cummins  fixed  his  eyes  upon  them,  and 
the  sight  of  Liadin 's  calm  and  contrite  looks  satisfied  him 
that  the  bond  would  not  be  broken  by  her;  and  he  pitied 
Curithir,  for  he  knew  what  was  passing  in  Curithir's  heart 
better  than  he  did  what  was  passing  in  the  woman's,  being 
a  man  himself,  and  he  said:  life  is  bitter  to  him  now  but 
the  bitterness  will  pass  and  what  was  once  bitter  will 
become  sweet,  but  if  I  let  them  go  their  gait  what  was 
once  sweet  will  turn  to  worse  bitterness.  And  Curithir, 
who  understood  the  hermit's  mind,  kept  saying  to  himself, 
as  he  walked  by  the  lake  shore:  'tis  the  old  that  make  life 
bitter  for  the  young,  and  they  make  it  betimes  so  bitter 
that  the  young  would  escape  from  them  through  death's 
door.  But  there  was  no  courage  in  him  to  divide  himself 
from  Liadin,  which  wasn't  the  same  with  Liadin,  whom 


94        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

Curithir  could  see  between  the  trees  betimes  sitting  on  a 
rock,  looking  across  the  lake.  Thinking  of  what?  he 
asked  himself,  but  he  dared  not  call  out  to  her  for  fear  the 
little  boys  might  hear  and  tell  on  him.  Will  she  have  the 
courage  to  drown  herself,  which  I  haven't  to-day,  though 
talking  with  Liadin  without  seeing  her  may  be  no  better 
enjoyment  than  feasting  my  eyes  on  her  without  speak- 
ing; and  he  wished  the  lake  to  rise  up  and  carry  them 
away,  for  living,  he  said,  is  bitter  as  a  sloe,  and  he  cast  one 
out  of  his  mouth.  Will  this  day  never  end?  he  asked; 
and,  moaning,  walked  the  shore,  till  at  last  the  hermit's 
bell  summoned  them  to  his  cell. 

So,  the  hermit  said,  you  have  chosen  to  speak  but  not 
to  see  each  other?  And  he  drew  a  curtain  across  the 
window  and  left  them  with  the  altar-boy,  who  was  told  to 
report  if  either  peeped  from  behind  the  curtain.  But 
without  sight  of  each  other  they  wearied  of  talking 
almost  as  soon,  but  not  quite  as  soon,  as  they  had  wearied 
of  gazing  at  each  other.  They  wearied  all  the  same, 
and  though  now  and  again  they  woke  up  from  a  doze 
and  began  talking  again  they  were  as  unhappy  the  second 
day  as  they  were  the  first. 

Lad,  the  hermit  said,  have  you  waked  or  slept?  And 
the  lad  answered:  I  may  have  dazed  a  bit,  Father,  but 
should  have  heard  them,  and  the  hermit  looked  at  the 
curtain,  and  seeing  it  as  he  had  left  it,  said:  now,  my 
children,  tell  me,  isn't  human  love,  as  I  said  it  was, 
different  in  this  from  the  love  of  God,  that  we  can 
love  God  without  the  sight  of  his  face  or  the  sound  of 
his  voice?  And  Curither,  answering  Cummins,  said  he 
would  not  endure  another  night  of  talking  without 
sight  or  sight  without  talking.  And  is  it  the  same 
with  you,  my  daughter?  the  hermit  asked.  But  Liadin 
did  not  answer  him,  and  he  said:  praise  be  to  the  great 
God,  she  has  passed  beyond  temptation  already.  She 
has  thrown  the  tempter  out  of  herself,  and  you  must 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        95 

strive,  my  son,  to  do  likewise.  Tell  me,  the  hermit 
continued,  turning  to  the  woman,  is  it  the  way  I've 
said?  and  she  answered:  it  is  just  as  you  have  said. 
I  could  bear  a  harder  test  than  the  one  you  gave  us; 
I  could  indeed,  and  I  could  lie  without  sin  beside  Curi- 
thir  there  from  dusk  to  dusk.  Without  temptation 
rising  up  within  you?  the  hermit  asked.  Without  any 
temptation  that  I  could  not  throw  out  easily.  Liadin, 
Liadin,  that  such  words  should  have  come  from  you, 
Curithir  cried,  turning  his  face  aside,  and  her  cruel 
talk  brought  such  tears  to  his  eyes  that  the  hermit 
was  sorry  for  him.  You  would  be  putting  a  great  test 
upon  yourself,  my  daughter,  for  the  flesh  is  strong  in 
the  night-time  and  the  spirit  weakens  towards  morning. 
But  to  know  if  you  speak  truly,  and  have  put  temptation 
well  away,  I'll  let  you  lie  with  Curithir.  Curithir  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands  to  keep  the  hermit  from  seeing 
his  joy.  The  hermit's  eyes  were  upon  Liadin,  and  he 
said:  I  wouldn't  put  you  in  doubt  of  danger,  my  child, 
but  I'll  do  this  to  give  you  a  chance  of  earning  greater 
glory  by  holding  out,  and  for  that  reason,  and  to  give  you 
good  help,  I'll  make  my  altar-boy  sleep  between  you. 
On  hearing  these  words  Curithir's  happiness  turned  to  as 
great  sorrow,  and  he  was  near  running  to  the  lake  to 
drown  himself,  but,  catching  sight  of  Liadin's  face,  he 
held  his  breath.  Was  this  a  trick  of  hers?  he  asked  himself. 
Had  she  a  spell  to  put  on  the  boy  so  that  he  would  sleep 
like  a  top,  and  would  neither  see  nor  hear  them,  and  they 
crossing  over  each  other  in  the  night?  And  feeling  that  it 
would  be  better  to  have  a  little  patience,  for  he  would 
know  all  these  things  later  on,  he  said  no  word  but 
followed  Cummins  to  the  hut. 

What  happened  to  them,  your  honour?  You  may  guess 
that  when  I  tell  you  that  in  the  morning  they  were  waked 
by  the  little  boy  crying  to  them,  saying:  look  now  at  the 
trouble  you've  shoved  me  into,  for  yonder  is  our  father 


96        A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

cutting  a  stick  in  the  hazel  copse  to  beat  me  if  I  refuse  to 
tell  him  the  truth.  But  you'll  be  helping  me  out  of  this 
trouble,  for  the  one  that  gets  the  pleasure  should  get  the 
pain.  Before  Curithir  could  answer  him,  the  door  was 
opened  by  the  hermit,  who  began  to  read  their  faces,  and 
being  almost  sure  he  had  read  them  truly,  he  turned  to 
the  boy,  saying:  you  see  this  stick?  This  stick  is  for  you, 
and  not  a  whole  inch  of  hide  will  I  leave  on  your  back 
unless  you  tell  me  the  truth,  the  whole  truth  and  nothing 
but  the  truth,  for  I  think  there  was  bad  work  done  in  this 
place  last  night.  Cummins  was,  as  I've  said,  seventy  at 
this  time,  and  the  boy  could  have  cast  him  to  the  ground, 
but  there  isn't  a  boy  in  Ireland,  God  be  praised,  that  would 
raise  his  hand  to  a  priest,  for  one  is  never  sure  that  he 
mayn't  have  the  sacred  elements  about  him  somewhere. 
It  matters  little  to  him  if  he  tells  you  the  truth,  Curithir 
said,  for  if  he  opens  his  lips  to  tell  lie  or  truth  I  will  have 
his  life.  At  this  the  boy  began  to  weep,  and  Cummins 
answered  that  he  should  not  have  put  this  great  trial  upon 
them,  but  what  has  happened  cannot  be  undone,  he  said, 
and  the  fault  is  with  the  man;  so  come  with  me,  Curithir, 
and  I'll  put  you  on  the  shore  with  a  letter  in  your  pocket 
that  you'll  take  to  the  holy  father  in  Rome;  he  may  be 
able  to  shrive  you  for  the  sins  you've  committed  last  night, 
which  is  more  than  I  can  do  for  you.  Go  to  him  at  once 
with  all  speed,  make  your  way  to  Rome  lest  God  take  you 
in  your  sin  and  plunge  you  into  hell  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  big  devils  that  dwell  below.  And  while  you're 
walking  to  him  I  will  be  praying  for  your  soul  and  for  the 
soul  of  the  poor  woman  beside  us  the  way  she  won't  be 
lost  for  ever  if  she  repents  and  if  you  repent  of  your 
deceiving  ways.  Sorra  deceiving,  said  Curithir,  and  you 
might  have  known  what  would  happen.  We  won't 
argue  that,  said  Cummins:  get  you  into  the  boat.  And 
you,  he  said  to  the  altar-boy,  stay  here  with  the  woman 
until  I  return.     Get  you  into  the  boat,  he  said  again,  for 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY        97 

Curithir  was  loth  to  leave  Liadin.  But  he  dare  not 
disobey  the  hermit,  and  Cummins  laying  himself  to  the 
oars  like  a  young  man,  God  putting  a  strength  into 
him  that  wasn't  natural,  so  that  in  a  few  minutes  the 
keel  was  grating  on  the  sand  beyond.  Out  of  my  boat 
with  you  now,  and  do  penance  for  your  sins  and  pray 
that  the  holy  father  may  shrive  you,  but  never  let  me 
see  your  face  on  this  island  again,  not  till  your  beard 
be  whitened  and  all  the  wickedness  gone  out  of  your 
heart. 

Cummins  took  up  his  oars  again  and  in  a  few  minutes 
he  was  back  to  the  island,  and  what  do  you  think  was 
the  first  thing  he  saw?  Liadin  lying  in  the  lake,  dead 
and  drowned,  where  she  had  fallen  from  a  rock,  she 
having  climbed  it  to  try  to  see  the  last  of  Curithir.  This 
is  a  bad  day  for  all  of  us,  the  hermit  murmured  to 
himself,  and  taking  the  boy  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck 
he  beat  him  severely,  saying:  take  this  and  take  that, 
for  it's  through  your  fault  the  woman  is  dead  and 
drowned  and  maybe  in  hell  at  this  moment,  unless 
the  great  God  in  his  mercy  knows  that  she  repented 
before  she  tumbled  into  the  water.  Now  be  off  with 
you,  you  limb,  he  said,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  day  he 
was  busy  digging  a  grave. 

And  it  is  in  that  grave  that  Liadin  is  lying  to  this  day, 
with  the  rowan-tree  growing  over  her,  for  all  that  man 
could  say  to  the  differ.  And  for  the  hind  end  of  the 
story  I've  to  tell  that  long  after  Cummins  was  dead 
Curithir  came  back,  old  and  broken  with  travelling  the 
world.  As  he  came  through  the  great  woods  to  the  lake 
the  people  didn't  know  him,  and  nobody  in  all  Ireland 
knew  him  to  be  the  great  poet  Curithir  who  had  gained 
such  glory  for  himself  in  the  courts  of  kings.  He  was 
white  and  ragged,  for  age  and  wolves  had  hunted  him, 
and  he  had  barely  escaped  with  his  life,  and  would  not 
have  done  that  if  maybe  the  God  above  him  had  not 


98        A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

wished  him  to  stand  at  Liadin's  grave.  Is  there  no 
hermit  at  all  on  the  island?  he  asked.  Not  a  one  at  all, 
they  told  him;  that  island  is  as  empty  as  a  tin  can  with 
a  hole  in  it,  but  the  hermit's  boat  is  beyond  still.  He 
got  into  the  boat  and  laid  to  the  oars,  and  he  found  the 
grave  after  much  searching  for  it,  and  when  he  did  find 
it  he  lay  down  beside  it,  saying:  well,  I've  come  to  my 
meering.  There  he  breathed  his  soul  away,  and  the 
hermit,  looking  down,  prayed  such  a  prayer  for  him  that 
God  could  not  choose  but  hear.  As  he  did  not  come 
back  the  villagers  sought  him  out  on  the  island,  and  they 
dug  a  grave  and  stretched  him  in  it,  and  not  many  years 
afterwards  the  rowan-trees  planted  above  the  grave 
reached  across  one  to  the  other,  their  branches  getting 
together  and  intertwining  as  a  token  of  the  great  love 
that  was  lying  under  their  berries,  that  were  red  as 
Liadin's  lips.  Her  lips  were  like  that,  as  red  as  the 
rowan  berry.  That  is  the  end  of  my  story,  maybe  it 
wasn't  too  long,  your  honour.  Your  story,  Alec,  I  said, 
is  to  my  mind  a  beautiful  relic  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as 
lovely  as  the  Tara  Brooch,  and  like  the  brooch  it  brings 
back  Ireland  to  me,  the  vanished  Ireland,  the  Ireland 
of  my  dreams.  How  long  ago  do  you  think  it  was  that 
Liadin  met  Curithir  by  this  stone?  I've  often  asked 
myself  that  question,  your  honour,  but  from  what  I 
remember,  and  from  what  my  father  used  to  be  saying 
that  his  father  said,  it  was  long  ago  indeed.  It  might 
be  a  thousand  years  ago. 

And  then  in  the  pleasant,  resinous  odour  of  the  larch- 
trees,  that  a  random  breeze  flying  in  and  out  of  the 
wood  carried  towards  us,  and  in  the  hum  of  the  bees 
making  for  their  hive,  and  in  a  consciousness  of  the 
beauty  of  the  long  grass  waving  in  the  wind,  Trusselby 
and  I  talked  of  ancient  Ireland  as  well  as  we  knew  how, 
myself  prompting  him  with  memories  of  what  I  had  picked 
up  in  conversation  with  Kuno  Meyer  and  Trusselby  falling 


A  STORY-TELLERS  HOLIDAY        99 

back  on  what  he  heard  from  his  father  and  his  grandfather 
of  what  Ireland  had  been. 

A  country  of  great  loneliness;  of  monks  who  had 
monasteries  everywhere,  and  who  sat  in  their  cells 
beautifying  the  gospels  with  ornamented  scrolls,  filling 
them  in  with  strange,  wonderfully  drawn  patterns,  gar- 
lands of  leaves  and  wreaths,  with  nooks  and  corners  for  the 
birds  and  the  squirrels.  That  part  of  the  story,  Trusselby, 
in  which  the  hermit  tells  Liadin  and  Curithir  how  he 
will  sit  in  his  cell  continuing  the  illumination  of  the 
gospels,  as  patiently  as  his  cat  waits  for  the  mice,  is 
delightful.  May  God  rest  his  soul,  father  used  to  tell  it 
the  same  as  I  am  after  telling  it  to  you,  and  he  got  it 
from  his  father,  Trusselby  answered. 

It  may  have  been  the  perfumed  shade  of  the  larches 
and  the  murmur  of  the  long  grass  that  won  my  thoughts 
out  of  the  present  till  I  looked  into  the  Ireland  that  was 
before  the  Danes  came — a  quiet,  sunny  land,  with  trees 
emerging  like  vapours,  with  long  herds  wandering  through 
the  haze,  watched  over  by  herdsmen.  In  that  land  all 
was  a  dream  for  beast  and  herdsmen  and  for  the  monks 
who  in  their  cells  patiently  illuminated  the  gospels  with 
strange  device  while  their  cats  waited  patiently  for  the 
mice  behind  the  wainscoting.  A  brooding,  sacred  peace 
reigned  over  the  land  that  I  looked  into;  and  I  under- 
stood that  in  those  halcyon  days  Ireland  lay  immersed  in  a 
religious  dream  that  the  world  never  knew  before  or  since, 
without  stirs  or  sign  of  danger  except  when  a  galley's 
prow  showed  in  the  estuaries.  And  for  a  long  time  the 
Danish  pirates  ravaged  only  the  coast-lands.  A  land  of 
forests  and  of  marshes  with  green  uplands,  I  said  aloud, 
and  Trusselby,  as  though  he  had  been  dreaming  my  dream, 
answered:  one  half  of  this  land  must  have  been  no 
better  than  a  big  bog,  and  worse  than  a  bog,  sir,  a  marsh 
full  of  reeds  and  bitterns  with  ducks  by  the  million.  And 
snipe,  I  said.     And  we  fell  to  talking  of  the  great  snipe- 


100      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

shooting  in  Ireland  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Trusselby  could  tell  of  many  great  shots.  The 
best  was  a  Mr.  Keyes,  the  same  gentleman  that  had  two 
thoroughbred  stallions  snorting  round  the  country  in 
your  own  time,  your  honour.  It  was  a  bad  day  he  didn't 
bring  home  his  forty  or  fifty  brace.  My  father,  Trusselby, 
was  a  good  snipe  shot,  and  he  told  me  that  many  a  time 
he  brought  home  fifty-nine  and  a  half  birds,  but  he  could 
never  get  the  thirty  brace.  I  wouldn't  be  saying  a  word 
against  your  own  father,  God  be  his  rest,  Mr.  Moore,  but 
I've  heard  from  my  father  that  Mr.  Keyes  often  brought 
back  fifty.  There  isn't  much  left  of  our  forests  now,  and 
one  time  they  covering  all  the  Burran  mountains.  It  was 
Cromwell,  bad  cess  to  him,  that  downed  the  timber,  for 
it  gave  shelter  to  the  ones  that  would  be  rising  and  strik- 
ing a  blow  for  Ireland.  I  don't  know,  Trusselby,  when 
the  last  wolf  was  shot  in  Ireland;  somewhere  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  wasn't  it?  Aye,  the  wolves  went 
off  when  the  trees  went  off.  In  those  days  Ireland  was 
the  land  of  trees,  I've  heard  my  father  say,  and  his  father 
before  him  told  the  same  story.  There  was  many  a  strip 
left  here  and  there  of  the  old  forests  in  his  time,  but 
there's  not  much  left  of  them  now. 

We  fell  to  talking  of  the  wolves,  and  how  hard  it  must 
have  been  for  the  ancient  folk  to  protect  their  flocks. 
Sure  they  hadn't  that  trouble:  hadn't  we  the  finest  wolf- 
hounds in  the  world,  your  honour,  and  plenty  of  them 
too? 

The  Irish  wolf-hound  is  a  subject  on  which  we  were 
both  eager  to  talk,  myself  having  heard  that  the  last  of 
the  true  breed  were  seen  at  Westport  House  about  1825 
or  1830.  After  that  the  breed  was  allowed  to  die  out, 
and  what  they  have  been  doing  since  to  revive  it  is 
but  a  mockery.  Great  Danes  crossed  with  Russian  deer- 
hounds;  there  might  be  a  touch  of  the  mastiff  too,  and 
very  like  in  appearance  to  the  old  wolf-hound  they  be, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      101 

your  honour,  but  I  wouldn't  trust  them  to  go  against 
a  wolf — no,  nor  against  a  good  strong  fox.     How  did 
we  get  the  wolf-hound?     Did  we  breed  him  ourselves? 
We  did  that,  but  I'm  not  saying  that  we  didn't  help 
the  strain  by  blood  from  beyond  in  the  Pyrenees,  where 
wolves  are  as  plentiful  as  nuts.     For  another  thing,  my 
father  used  to  be  saying  that  the  monks  that  lived  at 
Bregen  were  fair  destroyed  by  the  wolves.     I  mean  their 
flocks,  your  honour,  not  themselves,  for  the  wolf  is  a 
cowardly  creature,  and  unless  he's  got  the  other  ones  with 
him  he  wouldn't  dare  look  at  a  man.     It's  the  innocent 
sheep  them  fellows  do  be  digging  their  jaws  into,  and  it 
isn't  until  the  whole  flock  be  torn  and  mangled  that  they 
get  off  with  themselves  into  the  forests,  and  up  and  away 
among  the  hills  that  you  see  around  us  now.     The  same 
hills  used  to  be  all  scrub  and  forest,  and  there's  plenty  of 
hiding  in  the  holes  of  the  rocks  for  them  fellows,  and  they 
with  tails  like  a  pot-hook,  and  with  pointy  ears  and  long, 
snouty  chaps  to  their  jaws,  and  up  and  down  them  jaws 
teeth,  be  God,  that  would  give  you  the  jigs  to  look  at,  all 
sizes  and  sorts,  terrible  once  they  get  inside  the  flesh,  like 
Micky  Murphy's  big  cross-saw  when  himself   and  his 
brother  do  be  pulling  at  it,  Micky  in  the  pit  and  Pat 
above  on  the  balk:  only  the  saw  cuts  cleaner;  the  wolves 
snap  and  snatch  away,  that's  the  way  they  fight,  snatching 
and  tearing  until  the  bit  comes  out,  not  like  the  dog,  that 
holds  on  to  his  bite.     But  the  dog  is  quick  to  learn,  and 
what  made  the  Irish  hound  a  great  fighter  was  the  same 
snapping  trick  that  he  got  off  the  wolves. 

You  were  telling,  Alec,  about  some  hounds  that  came 
over  from  the  Pyrenees.  I'll  be  at  the  story  presently, 
your  honour,  or  maybe  it  would  do  me  as  well  to 
go  on  where  I  left  off.  And  where  was  that?  I 
disremember  it  now.  You  were  telling  about  the  de- 
struction of  the  flocks  belonging  to  the  monks  that 
lived  at  Bregen. 


102      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

I  was,  indeed,  your  honour;  they  were  terribly  cut 
about  by  the  wolves,  and  the  monks  lost  their  best 
hounds  in  the  fighting  that  was  always  going  on.  There 
was  only  an  old  bitch  left,  and  they  without  a  dog  to  line 
her  on  account  of  a  falling  out  they  had  with  the  king 
about  a  piece  of  land.  While  they  were  telling  each 
other  about  their  losses,  and  planning  snares  and  pitfalls, 
what  do  you  think  but  there  came  into  the  Abbot's  mind 
the  thought  of  a  young  Irish  monk  who  had  left  Ireland 
a  while  before  that  to  teach  Latin  and  Greek  to  the  folk 
beyond  there  in  the  Pyrenees.  I  wouldn't  give  a  rotten 
nut,  says  he,  for  the  snares  they  do  be  setting.  There 
isn't  a  wolf  will  go  into  them,  except  an  odd  one,  and  it 
blind  with  old  age  or  hard  of  the  hearing,  or  without  a 
smell  in  his  nose.  Far  better  it  would  be  to  send  a  letter 
to  the  Pyrenees  asking  the  Abbot  beyond  if  he  has  a  few 
hounds  he  could  be  sparing,  or  a  pup  maybe.  He  won't 
like  to  part  with  his  dogs,  though  he  had  them  from  us  a 
matter  of  ten  years  ago,  so  it's  only  fair  if  he  gives  us  a  few 
of  the  pups  to  pull  us  through.  He  did  that.  The  French 
Abbot  told  them  in  a  letter  that  he  was  sending  three 
dogs  to  Bregen  bred  from  the  stock  that  had  come  to  them 
from  Ireland;  each  of  the  three,  he  said,  was  a  match  for  a 
wolf.  Mind  you,  it's  a  good  dog  will  face  the  wolf  and 
the  pair  of  them  all  alone. 

The  monk  he  was  sending  with  the  dogs  was  Marban, 
a  young  fellow  of  the  Gael  that  had  gone  to  the  Pyrenees 
with  his  share  of  the  Latin  and  the  Greek  the  way  he'd 
be  teaching.  The  Abbot  had  to  send  him,  for  nobody 
could  travel  easy  in  Ireland,  and  they  not  knowing  the 
language  of  the  country.  How  long  would  your  honour 
say  it  would  be  from  this  place  to  the  Pyrenees?  About 
a  thousand  miles,  Alec,  I'm  thinking.  And  a  thousand 
miles,  with  three  dogs  under  your  hand,  Alec  answered, 
would  be  a  journey  of  about  a  couple  of  months  if  he 
came  through  the  Frenchmen's  country.     Which  is  not  at 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      103 

all  likely,  I  rapped  out.  It's  more  likely  he  took  ship  at 
Bordeaux  and  landed  at  Waterford.  Waterford  itself  is  a 
good  step  from  the  county  of  Mayo.  Alec  interjected: 
it  is;  it's  a  long,  weary  walk,  and  it's  full  of  dangers.  A 
man  might  easily  lose  himself  in  the  forests  at  that  time. 
My  grandfather  was  never  tired  of  talking  of  Ireland  in 
the  days  gone  by,  and  of  the  forests  that  were  everywhere 
except  where  there  were  bogs.  Some  of  the  hills  were 
free  from  trees,  of  course,  or  the  people  wouldn't  have 
been  able  to  live  at  all,  for  they  hadn't  a  thing  barring 
the  sheep  and  the  cattle,  just  like  now. 

Perhaps  there's  no  part  of  the  world  that  is  changed 
less  than  Ireland  herself.  In  those  times  there  were  four 
great  roads,  one  running  from  north  to  south,  and  another 
going  from  east  to  west,  and  the  people  were  divided 
between  the  ones  that  lived  in  the  monasteries  and  the 
ones  that  drove  the  cattle  from  this  pasture  to  the  next 
one.  Over  the  lot  of  them  were  a  few  warriors  who  rode 
in  chariots.  The  houses  were  made  of  wood,  and  that's 
why  there's  none  of  them  left  now.  They  were  all  burned 
or  battered  down  by  the  foreigner.  Has  your  honour 
ever  been  to  the  Arran  Islands  to  see  the  big  fort?  And, 
mind  you,  that  was  built  before  Patrick  came,  when  the 
men  were  pagans. 

Well,  putting  it  all  together,  it  was  no  easy  time  young 
Marban  had,  doing  his  twenty  miles  a  day,  for  if  he  did 
less  than  that  the  wolves  wouldn't  have  left  a  sheep  in 
the  county  of  Mayo.  So  he  struggled  on,  thinking  about 
the  monks  that  were  losing  their  flocks,  asking  his  way 
from  this  monastery  to  the  next  one,  and  sometimes 
holloing  for  an  advice  to  the  wild  lads  on  the  hills,  and 
getting,  perhaps,  only  half  an  answer  from  them.  Many's 
the  time  he  must  have  lost  himself  between  forest  and 
bog,  and  it  was  only  the  best  of  good  luck  or  the  prov- 
idence of  God  itself  that  got  him  across  the  Shannon. 
After  crossing  it  he  had  to  ask  his  way  through  the 


104      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

county  of  Roscommon,  a  fine  big  county,  and  Mayo  is 
a  fine  big  county  too,  and  Bregen  wasn't  many  miles 
from  where  we  are  now  sitting.  He  must  have  had  a 
hard  time,  eating  berries  out  of  his  hand,  and  the  dogs 
themselves  picking  up  whatever  was  going  in  the  way 
of  a  stray  rabbit  or  a  hare,  and  in  that  way  Marban  and 
his  dogs  came  out  at  day -fall  from  a  great  wood  in  West 
Mayo.  In  front  of  him  there  was  a  marsh  covered  with 
wild-fowl,  and  more  coming  in  at  every  minute:  every 
kind  of  duck;  gulls  would  be  there  too.  Faith,  they're 
in  it  still  and  plenty  of  them,  but  there  was  more  then, 
and  herons  and  bitterns  were  as  common  as  children  are 
now.  'Tis  a  lonesome  place  a  marsh  at  the  close  of  day, 
and  the  boom  of  the  bittern  would  put  a  traveller's  heart 
crossways,  and  he  listening  to  it  in  the  dusk.  I  believe 
there  were  bears,  too,  in  Ireland;  and  'tis  said  the  hug 
of  a  bear  makes  pudding  of  a  man's  insides.  Bears  are 
not  partial  to  flesh,  they  like  berries  better,  and  that's 
a  queer  thing  for  such  a  bulky  lad,  but  there  isn't  an 
animal  that  came  out  of  Noah's  Ark  that  dislikes  being 
interfered  with  or  meddled  with  more  than  a  bear  does. 
At  the  time  of  Marban's  arrival,  I'll  be  bound  the  deer 
were  skipping  down  to  the  rivers  to  drink,  but  I  needn't 
be  wasting  my  breath  on  these  things,  it's  only  that  I'd 
like  you  to  hear  the  story  the  way  I  heard  it. 

Well,  as  Marban  was  going  back  to  the  wood,  wishing 
to  tie  up  his  dogs  to  a  tree  and  make  himself  as  easy  as 
he  could  up  in  the  fork  of  a  bough,  he  saw  a  light,  and 
after  following  it  for  some  time  he  said :  maybe  that  isn't 
a  natural  light  at  all.  Maybe  that  is  a  will-o'-the-wisp  that 
will  lead  me  to  my  destruction.  He  was  wrong  there;  it 
wasn't  to  his  destruction  the  will-o'-the  wisp  led  him,  but 
to  his  safety,  if  you  can  call  it  that  when  you've  heard  the 
story  out,  but  God  knows  what  might  have  happened  to 
him  if  he  had  done  the  night  in  that  wood. 

When  he  was  going  back  into  it  he  caught  sight  of 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      105 

another  light,  and  he  said :  that  looks  a  better  one,  that's 
a  fine  steady  light;  that's  the  light  from  a  window,  and 
wherever  there's  a  window  there's  a  door,  and  wherever 
there's  a  door  there's  a  roof,  and  wherever  there's  a  roof 
there's  a  bed;  and  for  this  night  any  sort  of  bed  will  do 
me.  But  the  poor  man  didn't  know  the  sort  of  bed  he 
was  going  to,  he  was  that  full  of  hope,  and  every  step  he 
took  he  said  to  himself:  no  doubt  at  all  but  it's  a  house 
I'm  walking  to  this  minute,  or  it's  a  monastery,  or  maybe 
it's  the  court  of  a  king.  He  tried  to  remember  who  were 
the  kings  in  Mayo,  but  he  had  been  so  long  out  of  the 
country  that  he  couldn't  think  of  their  names.  Well,  said 
he,  small  the  thing  whether  I  sleep  in  a  castle  or  a  nunnery, 
or  the  court  of  a  king  this  night,  if  only  I  can  put  a  bit 
into  my  own  mouth  and  the  mouths  of  the  pups  here; 
and  if  I  get  a  pillow  underneath  my  head  I'll  be  well 
contented.  I  need  no  more  and  ask  no  more.  God  be 
praised,  I'm  saved;  I  am  so,  glory  be  to  God,  he  cried, 
and  he  hit  a  thump  on  the  gate. 

It  was  at  the  third  knock  that  the  Mother  Abbess 
poked  her  head  out  of  a  window,  and  not  three  minutes 
afterwards  there  were  three  other  heads  poking  out  of 
other  windows.  Good,  decent  women  they  are,  and  of  my 
own  race,  the  monk  said.  They  won't  be  grudging  me  the 
bit  to  eat  and  the  sup  that  washes  it  down.  He  wasn't 
wrong  there,  for  as  soon  as  the  Abbess  heard  his  story  and 
his  tale  she  bid  him  wait  till  she  had  got  some  clothes  on 
her  back.  We've  been  in  bed,  young  youth,  this  half -hour, 
she  said;  but  I'll  let  you  in.  When  she  had  slung  a  cloak 
on  she  opened  the  door  and  let  himself  and  his  dogs  in,  and 
she  saying:  the  blessing  of  God  on  yourself  and  on  these 
three  fine  dogs  that  are  sniffing  at  my  feet  this  minute. 
Badly  they're  wanted.  The  boys  up  the  hill  will  be  glad  to 
have  them  three  the  way  the  wolves  have  been  making 
havoc  and  destruction  amongst  the  flocks.  There  isn't  a 
flock  left  in  the  country,  my  son,  not  a  shepherd  but  has 


106      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

his  share,  some  of  them  two,  and  some  of  them  three,  and 
some  of  them  the  good  half  of  a  flock,  but  with  the  help  of 
God  and  these  three  fine  dogs,  we'll  have  mutton  to  our 
bread  on  Sundays  and  holidays  and  odd  times  as  well. 
We  haven't  tasted  much  meat  lately,  but  here's  a  bit  left, 
she  continued,  from  last  night,  and  we  depriving  ourselves 
of  it,  little  thinking  that  you  would  be  wanting  it  more 
than  we  do  after  your  long  travel,  my  poor  young  man. 
Was  it  Marban  you  said  you  were  called?  A  good  name  it 
is  surely  in  this  country. 

Such  was  her  canter  while  she  cut  the  bread  and  poured 
him  out  a  noggin  of  ale.  We  don't  drink  ale  ourselves, 
she  said,  but  we  have  it  for  strangers,  the  ones  that  do 
be  wanting  it.  While  talking  she  kept  on  looking  at  the 
lad,  taking  stock  of  his  size  and  his  shape,  and  from  what 
father  told  me  and  what  he  heard  from  his  father  before 
him,  Marban  was  a  fine  young  fellow  when  he  was  in  it, 
a  long-legged  lad  with  spreading  shoulders  to  him,  with 
red  lips,  and  a  mouthful  of  teeth  as  white  and  as  strong 
as  the  ones  inside  the  faces  of  his  hounds  that  were 
already  stretched  and  snoring  by  the  hearth,  too  tired 
for  even  their  feed. 

She  seemed  to  be  well  pleased  with  the  traveller,  and 
kept  on  putting  questions  to  him  about  himself  and  the 
ways  of  the  monastery  he  had  left  behind  in  foreign  parts. 
She  wasn't  a  woman  you  would  be  calling  young,  and 
she  wasn't  an  old  woman  either:  a  youngish  woman 
falling  into  flesh  as  the  roses  will  be  doing  in  a  month's 
time,  when  they  open  out  like  small  cabbages.  She  only 
had  a  few  clothes  on,  being  in  a  hurry  to  open  the  door 
to  him,  one  of  the  long  blue  cloaks  you  might  have  seen 
worn  by  the  married  women  when  you  were  a  boy,  and 
it  slipped  on  over  the  gown  she'd  gone  to  bed  in.  Well, 
she  was  so  full  of  the  lad  eating  at  her  table  that  she 
had  no  heed  of  herself,  more  often  than  not  showing 
herself  away  up  her  legs  and  down  into  her  bosom, 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      107 

puzzling  the  young  monk,  who  did  not  know  how  to 
let  on  he  wasn't  taking  notice  of  her.  You  will  under- 
stand how  this  was  right  well,  your  honour,  when  I  tell 
you  that  one  of  the  questions  she  was  haggling  at  was 
the  distance  between  his  monastery  and  the  nearest 
nunnery;  and  great  was  her  surprise  when  she  heard 
that  there  wasn't  a  nunnery  closer  to  him  than  twenty 
miles.  Sure  that's  ridiculous,  said  she.  How  do  you  be 
getting  your  temptation?  said  she.  Tell  me  that  now, 
said  she.  What  good  are  we  doing  here  if  we  be  not 
overcoming  strong  temptations?  she  said.  And  barring 
the  women,  what  temptations  are  there  in  this  world  for 
monks  who  have  the  height  of  eating  and  drinking,  and 
aren't  called  away  to  fight  for  any  king?  There  aren't 
any,  said  she.  And  the  young  man  not  answering  her, 
she  went  on  that  way  all  the  time,  until  at  last,  by  dint 
of  arguing,  she  got  him  to  fall  in  with  her  way  of  thinking 
instead  of  the  one  he  was  used  to,  and  he  told  her  that 
all  she  said  seemed  to  be  true  enough,  and  that  the 
sticking  of  yourself  into  the  way  of  temptation  so  that 
you'd  get  a  prize  for  standing  out  against  it  used  to  be 
practised  in  the  monastery  of  the  Pyrenees  long  ago,  but 
had  been  renaged  by  the  Church  because  lots  of  the  folk 
hadn't  been  able  to  shove  back  the  temptation  quick 
enough  to  save  their  souls  from  the  danger.  But  as  I've 
been  telling  ye,  the  Mother  Abbess  answered  him:  what 
good  is  it  to  be  living  at  all  if  it  isn't  to  be  overcrowding 
the  devil?  And  if  a  few  should  fall  back  into  his  claws,  isn't 
that  their  own  sin  and  their  own  folly  and  their  own  look- 
out? Is  there  to  be  no  thought  for  the  ones  that  be 
striving  to  get  a  place  up  in  heaven  and  they  not  having 
any  longer  the  ways  and  means,  temptation  having  been 
forbidden  by  the  Church?  'Tis  a  poor  thing,  I  say,  and 
a  hard  thing  when  the  strongest  are  held  back  by  the 
weakest,  and  the  fine  places  in  heaven  are  empty,  there 
being  no  person  to  win  them. 


108      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

As  the  remark  came  the  door  opened  and  Sister  Blath- 
nat  came,  and  she  so  tidily  dressed  that  the  Mother  Abbess 
couldn't  keep  her  tongue  quiet  and  snapped  out  that  she 
had  been  too  long  delaying  to  bid  the  stranger  welcome. 
And  when  will  the  rest  of  the  sisters  be  coming  in? 
They'll  be  here,  Sister  Blathnat  answered,  inside  a  minute 
or  two  minutes.  And  strange  things  they  will  be  hearing 
when  they  do  come.  And  when  all  had  forgathered  the 
Abbess  repeated  all  the  monk  had  just  told  her:  that 
there  wasn't  a  nunnery  with  a  female  in  it  within  twenty 
miles  of  his  monastery  in  the  Pyrenees,  and  that  they 
didn't  want  one,  it  having  come  to  pass  that  a  man  is 
forbidden  to  put  himself  into  temptation  for  fear  he  might 
be  bet.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that  story  before, 
Sister?  And  isn't  it  the  great  nonsense?  As  I  was 
telling  Brother  Marban  here,  our  work  in  the  world  is  the 
overcoming  of  the  devil,  and  if  we  aren't  at  it  all  our  lives, 
what  chance  is  there  for  us  to  get  a  place  in  heaven  at  all, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  fine  easy  one? 

Sister  Blathnat  was  a  tall,  sloping  woman,  with  soft  eyes, 
such  as  one  sees  in  a  deer.  Her  hair  was  like  silk,  brown 
with  a  yellow  shine  in  it,  and  the  longest  legs  a  woman 
ever  had,  measuring  them  from  the  knee  to  the  ankle, 
and  wonderfully  sweet  were  they,  the  sort  that  would  stir 
up  the  heart  of  any  man  to  be  at  her.  And  she  gained 
great  advancement  with  her  legs,  moving  them  while  she 
spoke,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  monk,  crossing  and  uncrossing 
them  as  she'd  a  right  to  do,  for  all  this  was  her  business, 
and  his  business  was  to  think  of  our  Lord  Jesus,  who  had 
died  for  him  on  the  cross,  and  she  too  would  have  to  think 
of  the  same  thing,  and  be  saying  prayers  while  all  this 
was  going  on. 

The  nun  sitting  beside  her,  Sister  Muirgil,  was  a  small 
woman,  with  round,  inquisitive  eyes,  which  she  kept  raising 
and  lowering  as  if  she's  set  the  monk  thinking  that  it 
might  be  harder  for  him  if  he  were  put  to  it  to  resist  her 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      109 

than  Sister  Blathnat.  After  her  there  came  another  nun, 
Sister  Brigit,  a  thin  woman  that  at  first  sight  you  might 
be  taking  for  a  girl,  so  rosy  were  her  cheeks,  and  the 
finest  head  of  hair  she  had  in  the  county  of  Mayo,  it 
ringletting  about  her  neck  like  the  ferns  in  May,  and  her 
eyes  were  kindly,  yet  she  was  in  no  way  good-looking, 
barring  that  she  made  a  fine  shape  through  her  gown. 

Other  men  found  that  they  were  better  helped  up  the 
difficult  way  to  heaven  by  Sister  Eorann,  a  girl  as  brown 
as  a  berry  she  was,  with  crinkly  hair  and  merry  eyes  and 
with  much  pleasant  talk.  She  was  the  last  but  one  to  get 
out  of  bed  and  come  down,  and  Marban  guessed  that  she 
was  someone  in  the  nunnery,  for  she  joined  in  with  the 
Mother  Abbess,  interrupting  her  telling  Marban  that  God 
allowed  the  devil  to  test  men  with  temptations,  but 
measuring  these  always  to  their  strength.  The  women, 
said  she,  are  the  best  temptation  of  all  the  temptations; 
everybody  knows  that,  and  it  is  only  the  great  and  good, 
the  ones  that  are  worthy  of  high  places  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  that  can  resist  the  women  without  going  to  the 
tub.  The  monks  from  Crith  Gaille  come  down  and  they 
stretch  beside  us  as  quiet  and  gentle  as  lambs  beside 
their  ewes,  and  no  evil  in  them  at  all.  Of  course  they 
are  burning  all  the  while,  and  well  they  may,  but  it  is 
only  by  burning  here  that  we  escape  the  burning  and 
the  blazes  of  hell.  Is  it  not  the  same  with  you  women? 
Brother  Marban  asked.  And  the  Mother  Abbess  answered 
him:  it's  the  same  for  us  as  for  them.  Burning  we  do 
be,  and  mighty  uneasy,  for  are  we  not  always  tempting 
each  other,  and  together  overcoming  our  temptations, 
thereby  winning  great  rewards?  'Tis  like  going  up  the 
ladder,  we  begin  at  the  lowest  step  and  end  at  the  top 
one.  For  myself,  being  forty  years  of  age,  the  young  men 
lie  with  me,  who,  though  no  longer  young,  am  still  able 
to  stir  their  blood;  but  the  old  monks  lie  with  the  sisters 
until  they   contrive  power  over  themselves   and  great 


110      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

resistance  to  any  of  us.  Any,  Sister  Blathnat  said,  except 
Sister  Luachet,  who  hasn't  yet  lain  with  a  man.  The 
Abbot,  said  the  Abbess,  picking  her  up,  will  lie  with 
Sister  Luachet  if  he  recovers  from  the  sickness  that  is  on 
him.  He's  very  sick,  the  poor  man,  and  he's  as  old  as  the 
hills.  It  will  be  his  last  temptation.  He'll  not  be  long 
with  us,  and  I'd  like  to  have  him  high  up  in  heaven,  ready 
to  receive  us  all  when  the  time  of  temptation  is  over  and 
done  with. 

The  talk  went  on  about  Sister  Luachet  till  she  came 
into  the  room,  and  when  she  came  in  the  monk  saw  the 
prettiest  girl  he  ever  did  see.  Her  hair  was  the  colour  of 
the  corn  before  the  reaper  goes  in  with  his  sickle,  and  her 
eyes  were  well  set  in  her  head,  and  round  and  blue  and 
pleading,  and  her  shape  was  pretty  throughout.  Small 
breasts  she  had,  and  straightened  flanks,  and  round  thighs, 
and  ankles  as  pretty  as  a  young  donkey's.  She  had  a  live 
smile  on  her  face,  something  that  put  one  in  mind  of  a 
bird  and  of  a  flower,  and  of  pleasant  harmless  things. 
The  Mother  Abbess  told  Luachet  to  strip  herself,  so  that 
Marban  might  see  what  a  trial  she  would  be  to  the  devil 
in  times  to  come,  and  she  winning  high  places  in  heaven 
for  the  monks,  and  he  not  getting  one  monk  of  the 
monks  for  his  realm  below. 

Isn't  that  so,  my  little  Luachet?  said  she,  and  the  girl 
clapped  her  hands,  saying:  it  is,  Mother;  I'll  be  making 
saints  and  saving  saints  in  the  times  to  come.  The 
Mother  Abbess  continued  her  canter:  but  we'll  wait  till 
she  fades  a  little,  the  girl,  before  we  allow  her  to  lie  with 
the  monks  at  Bregen,  only  with  the  Abbot  himself  if  he 
comes  out  of  the  sickness,  and  it  will  take  little  Luachet 
to  stir  up  a  flame  in  him,  poor  old  man,  and  he  seventy- 
five  if  he's  a  day,  so  that  he  may  win  a  place  in  heaven 
will  do  honour  to  Ireland.  And  now,  the  Reverend 
Mother  continued,  slip  into  your  gown,  child,  and  your 
cloak,  for  the  night  is  chilly. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      111 

In  the  Pyrenean  monastery,  the  place  this  man  comes 
from,  there  is  no  nunnery  within  twenty  miles,  and  the 
monks  live  there  without  temptation  from  a  woman  year's 
end  to  year's  end,  eating  their  fill  and  drinking  their  load, 
but  not  a  chance  nor  the  ghost  of  a  chance  for  them  to 
conquer  themselves.  Strange  ways  the  Church  has  fallen 
into,  and  strange  times  for  the  world.  Ah!  it's  only  in 
holy  Ireland,  I'm  thinking,  that  the  saints  are  still  living. 

Mother,  interrupted  Brother  Marban,  in  the  South  the 
blood  is  hotter  than  it  is  in  the  North.  Ah!  the  Mother 
Abbess  grunted;  true  for  you.  It's  in  holy  Ireland  only 
that  strength  is  given  to  man  to  best  temptation,  and 
now,  for  it's  getting  late,  which  of  us  is  going  to  lie  with 
Brother  Marban  to-night,  and  he  not  having  had  a  tempta- 
tion to  strive  with  for  this  long  while  back?  Any  one  of 
you  might  strike  up  a  flare  in  that  kind  of  flesh.  Brother, 
though  you  do  look  like  a  virtuous  and  a  holy  young  man, 
I'll  lie  with  you  myself  this  night,  for  I'm  older  and  wiser 
and  better  able  to  be  staunch  if  the  devil  tries  to  cut  any 
capers  beyond  ones  that  we  expect  from  him  and  are 
used  to.  We've  managed  to  keep  him  out  of  this  place 
up  to  now,  so  don't  be  worried  or  frightened,  for  he  won't 
pass  the  doors  and  windows,  sprayed  as  they  are  with  holy 
water,  nor  will  he  try  the  chimney,  for  the  vane  itself  is 
the  form  and  shape  of  a  holy  cross,  protection  enough. 
Maybe  you  have  an  extra  crucifix  handy,  Mother,  said 
Marban,  and  there  is  great  virtue  in  that  indeed. 
I  have,  she  answered.  I  will  put  this  one  round  your 
neck,  the  way  you'll  hold  it  in  your  hand  and  be  kissing 
it  while  you're  in  the  bed,  for  that's  what  will  give  you 
courage  to  hold  out  against  the  temptation.  And  now, 
my  children,  good-night  to  the  lot  of  you,  she  said  to  the 
other  nuns.  Out  with  you,  and  leave  me  here  to  my 
troubles  with  this  young  man. 

When  she  had  the  door  shut  behind  them  she  came 
over  to  Marban  and  told  him  to  kneel  down  alongside 


112      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

herself  and  say  a  prayer;  so  they  did  that,  but  she  prayed 
so  long  that  the  boy  thought  his  knees  would  break  away 
from  under  him.  Tender  you  do  be  about  the  knees 
when  you're  young.  First  he  lifted  up  one  knee  and 
then  he  lifted  up  the  other  one  and  there  wasn't  the 
smell  of  a  prayer  left  in  him  when  the  nun  got  up  with 
a  grunt  and  gave  her  leg  a  shake.  Now,  said  herself, 
we'll  be  getting  into  bed.  Do  you  begin  to  strip,  and 
I'll  not  be  long  behind  you. 

The  young  man  was  in  travelling  dress,  and  there  were 
boots  to  be  unlaced,  and  brooches  to  be  unhooked,  and 
many  other  things,  and  while  he  was  laying  his  clothes 
aside  and  folding  them  up,  he  had  his  back  to  the  Abbess, 
for  he  wasn't  used  to  this  kind  of  thing;  but  she  had 
little  on  her,  barring  the  cloak  and  the  shift,  and  when 
the  cloak  was  off  she  says  to  him:  now,  Brother  Marban, 
none  of  this  dodging  your  lawful  temptations;  turn  round 
here  and  take  a  look  at  me  and  don't  be  afraid,  for  God 
will  give  you  grace  to  resist  me.  He  found  she  was  very 
like  what  he  thought  she  would  be,  like  one  of  those 
big  cabbage  roses,  all  pink  and  white,  thick  about  the 
thighs,  too  big  in  the  belly  for  sightliness,  or,  as  they 
say,  beef  to  the  heels  like  a  Mullingar  heifer.  But  a 
fine  woman  all  the  same,  and  when  they  were  side 
by  side  together,  she  gave  him  a  prod  and  said  she  again: 
face  round  here  to  your  temptations  and  face  them  bravely, 
for  your  guardian  angel  is  always  beside  you.  But,  says 
he,  if  the  devil  should  be  stronger  in  me  and  overcome 
the  angel?  You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  said  she.  The 
monks  in  the  monastery  above  would  come  down  here  and 
drive  you  out  into  the  wilderness  with  clouts  of  a  stick 

if  they  thought They'd  kill  me,  he  interrupted.     I 

wouldn't  go  as  far  as  to  say  that,  she  said,  but  they  would 
do  a  damage  to  you,  and  they'd  have  no  further  truck 
with  you.  The  wilderness  is  a  bad  place  at  night,  the 
way  it's  so  full  of  bears  and  wolves.     Be  thinking  of  that 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      113 

now  and  you're  safe.  But  you  mustn't  be  thinking  of  the 
other  things,  for  everything  comes  out  of  your  head, 
and  if  you  don't  let  the  thought  into  your  head,  you're 
as  safe  as  I  am.  You're  quiet  enough  as  it  is.  There's 
nothing  to  fear,  my  good  boy,  and  the  nun  passed  her 
hand  over  him,  and  finding  him  slack  everywhere,  she 
said:  there's  not  much  temptation  in  you,  young  man, 
so  let  you  lie  now  in  my  arms,  and  look  into  my  eyes, 
and  whatever  temptation  there  may  be  about  will  rise 
up  and  you  have  the  chance  to  scoop  it  out  of  yourself. 

If  I  get  away  from  this  place  with  my  life,  said  the 
young  man  to  himself,  they  won't  catch  me  here  again 
for  ever,  and  I  won't  stop  running  either  until  my  feet 
give  out,  and  until  there  are  nine  twisting  miles  of  scrub 
between  myself  and  themselves  here  in  this  house  of 
God.  The  monks  up  yonder  would  be  hard  men  with 
no  pity  in  them  for  them  that  tumble.  God  be  praised 
that  I  did  my  forty  miles  this  day  through  tough  country, 
and  me  with  three  healthy  dogs  pulling  out  of  me,  for 
the  same  journey  would  leave  the  sinfullest  man  with 
little  humour  for  a  bit  of  tallow  at  the  end  of  it,  to  say 
nothing  of  a  cleric  and  he  guaranteed  by  the  grace  of 
God.  But  never  a  word  of  all  this  to  the  nun  that  was 
in  his  arms,  and  she  thinking  that  nothing  but  the  power 
of  God  could  make  him  so  like  a  dish-cloth.  You've 
conquered  your  temptation  before  you  came  here,  said 
she.  But  we  must  find  a  better  one  to  rouse  you.  The 
devil  a  one  here  will  do  that,  said  the  lad  to  himself.  At 
daybreak  I'm  away  to  the  monastery,  and  maybe  I'll 
be  safer  there. 


114      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


CHAPTER  19. 

HE  was  asleep  the  minute  after  the  door  closed  behind 
her,  and  he  didn't  rouse  or  budge  until  the  sun  was 
high  up  in  the  heavens  and  the  nuns  had  been  knocking  at 
his  door  more  times  than  once.  Nor  was  it  till  the  third 
or  fourth  knock  that  he  opened  his  eyes,  but  at  the  fifth 
or  the  sixth;  and  seeing  the  sun  that  strong  in  the  room, 
he  said  to  himself:  I'm  done  for;  I've  slept  it  out.  I'll 
be  kept  here  by  the  women,  and  if  I'm  fresh  and  vigorous, 
and  lying  with  one  of  the  younger  ones  in  the  night  that's 
coming,  the  lord  will  be  put  to  the  pin  of  his  collar  to 
save  me  from  the  devil.  I'd  do  well  to  kiss  the  crucifix, 
said  he,  and  dragged  on  his  clothes,  for  he  could  hear  a 
gathering  of  them  beyond  his  door,  and  thinking  they 
might  be  coming  in  upon  him,  he  bounced  out  into  the  very 
middle  of  them  and  very  soon  Sister  Eorann  was  stuck  on 
him  like  a  burr.  You  remember,  your  honour,  the  almost 
crooked  little  figure  with  crinkly  hair  and  grey  eyes,  a 
babbling  little  nun,  that  was  soon  telling  Marban  to  his 
face  of  his  grand  success  last  night.  As  quiet  as  a  lamb 
you  were,  said  the  mother  to  me,  and  you  inside  her  arms 
and  well  in,  and  that  we'd  have  our  work  cut  out  to 
work  a  temptation  in  you.  But  it's  grand  work,  indeed, 
getting  the  better  of  the  devil. 

Before  Marban  could  answer  her  she  was  telling  him 
the  story  of  their  nunnery:  how  a  hundred  years  ago 
Suibhne  MacCalmain,  king  of  Dal  Ariadhe,  was  mad  and 
distracted  by  a  great  sickness  that  was  on  his  wife,  and 
no  one  could  cure  her,  though  all  the  wise  women  in 
Connaught  had  been  by  her  bed-side  giving  her  every  kind 
of  medicine,  and  no  good  coming  to  her  out  of  it.  Sorra 
one  of  them  could  tell  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  only 
that  she  was  wasting  away,  and  she  was  no  more  than  a 
dead  bird  at  the  bottom  of  a  cage  with  its  legs  poked  up 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      115 

when  MacCalmain  came  running  out  of  the  house  to  throw 
himself  into  the  river  and  drown  himself  therein.  On  the 
way  he  met  three  nuns,  and  said  they  to  the  king:  where 
are  you  off  to,  MacCalmain?  I'm  off  to  throw  myself  into 
the  water.  What's  that  for?  said  they.  It's  to  drown 
myself,  said  he;  for  the  wife  is  dead,  said  he,  or  she's 
dying  on  me.  How  do  you  make  that  out?  said  a  nun  of 
the  nuns,  and  MacCalmain  said:  there's  hardly  a  grip 
of  her  left.  All  the  same,  said  the  nuns,  her  life  isn't 
done  with  yet.  How  is  that?  said  the  king.  What  do 
you  mean  by  that?  said  he.  Do  you  not  know,  said  the 
nun,  that  the  angels  are  gathering  this  minute  of  the 
minutes  above  there  in  the  clouds,  blue  and  white  they 
be,  to  bear  her  soul  to  God?  I  know  that  same,  said  the 
king;  I  know  it  well.  Good  for  you,  MacCalmain,  said 
the  nun.  And  tell  me  this  now,  said  she:  do  you  want 
to  separate  yourself  from  herself  for  ever?  Is  that  it? 
Separate  myself  from  herself,  it  is  not  that,  said  he;  and 
he  stood  gazing  and  gaping  without  a  word  in  him.  As 
soon  as  he  got  hold  of  a  few  odd  words  he  said  that  he 
was  off  to  his  drowning  in  the  river  because  he  couldn't 
live  without  her.  Live!  said  a  nun  of  the  three  nuns.  We 
don't  live  on  this  earth  at  all,  it's  a  dream;  our  own  life 
is  heaven  itself,  close  to  the  Lord  God,  and  he  in  the 
middle  of  the  holy  saints.  Come  away  from  the  river, 
MacCalmain,  and  pray  to  have  your  sins  forgiven  and  you 
to  be  restored  to  your  wife  when  she's  wearing  a  better 
crown  than  the  one  you  gave  her.  Don't  say  a  word 
against  the  crown,  says  the  king,  for  he  was  a  proud  man, 
and  he  got  the  crown  made  himself;  but  all  the  same  the 
words  of  the  nuns  struck  him  as  being  wise  words,  and  he 
was  going  off  to  do  their  bidding  when  one  of  the  three 
nuns  called  him  back.  We  are  going  to  pray  to  God  the 
way  you'll  get  back  your  wife.  Do  that  same,  said  he, 
for  heaven  itself  would  be  a  poor  place  to  me  if  I  couldn't 
plant  my  seat  alongside  the  seat  of  Etain,  the  one  I  gave 


116      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

my  crown  to  and  my  heart,  and  all  my  wishes  and  my 
wants.  And  now  tell  me,  he  said,  since  you  understand 
these  things  so  well,  will  he  be  giving  her  to  me  plump 
and  hearty,  the  way  she  was  last  year,  or  will  she  be  all 
skin  and  bone,  the  way  she  is  this  year?  A  foolish  question, 
to  be  sure,  but  the  man  was  ruined  with  the  grief,  and 
even  the  holy  faces  of  the  nuns,  and  they  looking  side- 
ways at  him,  could  only  pacify  him  bit  by  bit,  until  the 
truth  dawned  on  him  that  life  on  this  earth  is  no  more 
than  a  shadow  of  the  long  life  that's  stored  up  for  us  in 
heaven.  If  it's  that  way,  said  he  to  himself,  the  less  I 
think  about  earth  the  better,  for  I'm  getting  on  and  there 
can't  be  many  more  years  in  front  of  me.  But  if  I  get  to 
heaven  I'll  have  an  eternity  with  Etain,  and  that's  a  long 
time.     So  here  goes  for  Etain. 

With  that  he  gave  up  the  kingdom  and  went  and  joined 
the  hermits  that  do  be  in  the  wilderness,  passing  his 
kingdom  over  to  his  brother  Guaire  and  giving  the  nuns 
a  whacking  lump  of  his  forests  and  glebe  for  the  building 
of  a  nunnery,  they  bargaining  to  be  offering  up  prayers, 
and  good  ones,  so  that  he  might  meet  his  wife,  her  body 
and  soul,  in  heaven. 

It  wasn't  long  after  that  he  began  to  study  the  Latin, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  enough  of  the  tongue  to  get  through 
Mass  they  made  a  priest  out  of  him,  and  with  his  cassock 
on  his  back  he  was  the  proud  man,  thinking  small,  rough 
potatoes  of  his  brother  Guaire,  the  new  king.  You  have 
a  soft  silk  shirt  on  you  like  I  used  to  wear  when  I  was  a 
king  and  a  sinner,  but  my  cassock  scratches  my  skin, 
making  many  a  sore  place,  but  every  one  of  these  scabs 
will  be  lifting  me  up  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  blessed 
Etain,  and  she,  if  it's  the  will  of  God,  a  saint  among  the 
saints.  Whereupon  the  two  brothers  went  up  to  where  the 
nuns  were  building,  and  MacCalmain  put  off  his  cassock 
and  dug  into  the  work  of  collecting  wattles  and  driving  in 
stakes  with  a  hammer,  and  Guaire  watching  him,  wishing 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      117 

to  do  the  same,  but  of  course  he  couldn't,  for  that's  no 
king's  job.  But  he  was  proud  of  the  brother  all  the  same, 
and  he  thought  a  lot  of  the  nuns  too.  Great  women  were 
the  nuns  of  old  Ireland,  content  at  first  with  little  enough, 
a  church,  a  refectory,  a  kitchen,  a  library,  a  workshop,  a 
guest-chamber  maybe,  and  to  get  these  built,  great  labour 
was  needed.  My  father  was  apt  at  telling  a  story  how 
St  Patrick,  going  the  road  from  Mayo  to  Ulster,  cried 
like  a  baby  when  he  saw  the  blood  on  the  woodmen's 
hands,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  in  two  great 
streams.  The  nuns  would  never  have  been  able  to  clear 
the  land  of  forest  if  MacCalmain  had  not  asked  his  brother 
Guaire  to  send  up  help;  sure,  they  couldn't  do  it.  The 
nuns,  he  said,  haven't  time  to  say  as  much  as  a  prayer,  and 
my  poor  wife  and  I  are  lonely  one  for  the  other,  she  away 
there  in  heaven  and  I  where  I  am  in  this  place.  Send 
these  nuns  good  help  the  way  they'll  get  their  building 
finished  and  be  able  to  say  their  prayers.  The  wife  may 
be  in  purgatory  yet  for  all  we  know.  Send  up  some  good 
help,  Guaire,  and  we'll  all  get  a  prayer  said  for  us  against 
the  time  we'll  be  in  purgatory,  for  there  will  all  of  us  be 
sooner  or  later,  this  day  or  the  next,  and  God  knows  for 
how  long. 

All  that  I'm  telling  your  honour  Marban  heard  from 
Eorann,  and  when  his  turn  came  to  speak  he  said :  you've 
heard,  Sister,  that  in  heaven  there  is  neither  marriage 
nor  giving  in  marriage.  We  read  the  same  words  in  the 
gospels,  Eorann  answered,  but  it  is  the  Abbot  beyond 
explains  hard  things  to  the  laity;  and  sure  it  is  only 
just  and  reasonable  that  we  should  be  rewarded  in 
the  next  world  for  the  temptations  that  we  conquer 
in  this  one. 

To  this  Marban  could  only  answer:  'tis  true  for  you, 
Sister.  'Tis  true  indeed.  And  he  wondered  at  her  blab- 
bing little  tongue,  her  round,  childlike  eyes,  and  it  was 
with  an  uneasy  mind  and  an  itchy  body  that  he  followed 


118      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

her  round  the  lands  of  Crith  Gaille,  asking  himself,  if 
he  had  to  lie  with  every  nun  in  the  nunnery,  would  he 
be  strong  enough  to  resist  the  lot  of  them  the  way 
he  did  Mother  Abbess,  or  would  he  have  to  give  in. 
Let  me  out  of  this  place,  he  said  to  himself,  and  I'll 
take  care  not  to  put  one  foot  of  my  feet  into  it  again. 
I  would  never  have  come  back  to  the  old  country  if 
I  dreamt  that  such  trials  and  goings  on  were  in  pickle 
for  me.  You're  not  listening  to  me,  Marban,  the  little 
nun  was  saying.  I  am,  indeed,  said  he;  and  to  prove 
it,  you're  telling  me  that  when  a  school  is  added  huts 
are  built  round  it  for  the  students,  and  that  the  Mother 
Abbess  was  often  of  the  same  family  as  the  founder, 
the  office  coming  down  from  father  to  son.  Isn't  that 
what  you  said,  or  isn't  it?  And  Eorann  had  to  give  in  that 
he  did  know  what  she  was  talking  about.  But  what  is 
there  on  your  mind?  she  asked.  For  there  is  something. 
I'm  thinking  about  the  difference  there  is  between  the 
Ireland  I  left  and  the  one  I've  come  back  to.  What 
difference  can  you  be  seeing,  for  you  were  no  better  than 
a  child  when  you  left  Ireland?  she  answered.  And  you've 
come  back  to  the  same  Ireland  as  always  was  and  always 
will  be,  praise  be  to  God  for  ever  and  ever. 

They  hadn't  walked  very  far  before  he  said :  we've  got 
out  of  the  way  of  putting  ourselves  into  temptation,  and 
she  answered  him:  is  it  how  the  Mother  Abbess  made 
you  out  to  be  holier  than  you  are  and  that  you're  afraid 
of  us?  It  isn't  that,  said  Marban.  It  is  not  that  indeed. 
What  else  can  it  be,  said  Eorann,  that  would  stop  a  man 
from  winning  a  high  place  in  heaven  and  he  getting  the 
chance?  He  might  be  a  humble  sort  of  man,  said  Marban, 
and  he  might  be  one  would  be  content  with  a  small  place. 
You  won't  be  talking  like  that  to  the  sisters  whom  I  see 
coming  towards  us,  for  they  will  be  expecting  you  to  look 
upon  the  temptations  we  are  laying  out  for  you  as  your 
heavenly  fortune. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      119 

You  never  could  be  sure  with  Eorann  that  she  wasn't 
making  fun  of  you,  for  there  was  a  sting  at  the  back  of 
whatever  she  said,  and  Marban  felt  that  he  didn't  like 
her.  As  she  went  off,  he  said  to  himself:  well,  it  won't  be 
that  one  will  give  me  a  fall.  And  he  threw  an  eye  over 
the  others  that  were  now  round  him,  talking  to  him,  each 
one  trying  to  get  him  to  herself,  for  they  all  wanted  to 
hear  about  the  monastery  in  the  Pyrenees,  and  what  sort 
of  men  the  foreign  monks  were,  and  if  he  liked  speaking 
the  French  better  than  he  did  the  Irish;  and  they  wanted 
to  know  if  the  prayers  and  the  fastings  were  long  beyond 
there  in  the  Pyrenees,  and  what  penances  they  got,  and 
if  the  Abbot  called  up  every  monk  in  turn  to  receive 
many  stripes  on  the  hand.  We  get  two  hundred,  one 
said  to  Marban,  in  the  days  before  Lent,  to  remind  us 
that  we  are  at  the  beginning  of  the  year's  penance.  But, 
said  he,  your  prayers  here  don't  seem  to  me  to  be  out 
of  the  way  long.  You  had  matins  at  midnight  the  same 
as  there  is  in  every  convent,  and  I  said  Mass  for  myself 
at  seven.  The  monks  at  Bregen,  said  he,  don't  seem  to 
be  coming  down  to  fetch  their  hounds.  We  didn't  send 
them  word,  Blathnat  answered.  And  we  won't  send  them 
word  yet  a  while,  Muirgil  rapped  out,  for  we  want  to  have 
you  here  to  ourselves  so  that  you  may  be  getting  great 
glory  for  us. 

Now  Marban  didn't  give  her  an  answer,  for  he  was 
brooding  on  the  dangers  that  Crith  Gaille  held  for  him, 
and  wondering  how  soon  he'd  be  out  of  the  place,  and 
wondering  if  he  could  hit  on  a  plan  to  trick  the  nuns  and 
make  off.  So  he  kept  turning  and  twisting  the  ways  of 
escape  over  in  his  mind,  but  nothing  came  of  it  until  he 
thought  of  the  dogs.  Wouldn't  you  like,  said  he,  to  have 
a  look  at  my  fine  hounds?  So  they  went  round  together 
to  the  outhouse  where  the  dogs  were  tied,  and  when  he 
called  out  Cathba,  a  great  baying  and  scratching  answered 
him.     Crede's  welcome  was  an  impatient  whimper,  and 


120      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

Marban  bade  the  nuns  hearken.  The  finest  tongue  of  all 
is  Duban's,  he  said.  And  when  the  doors  were  opened 
the  three  great  hounds  rose  up  on  their  hind  legs,  straining 
at  their  chains,  and  the  nuns  cried  out  and  ran  and  hid 
themselves  behind  the  doors ;  but  Marban  said :  you  could 
trust  a  child  with  them,  'tis  only  the  smell  of  a  wolf  rises 
up  their  bristles.  So  eagerly  did  the  hounds  strain  against 
their  collars  that  Marban  could  hardly  loosen  them  from 
their  chains,  but  once  they  were  free  it  was  a  fine  sight 
to  see  them  at  play,  jumping  over  each  other  and  over  the 
nuns,  up  on  the  shoulders  of  everybody,  licking  their  faces 
and  away  again,  smelling  round  the  tree-trunks,  and 
relieving  themselves;  going  down  on  their  haunches  and 
then  scattering  the  earth  and  leaves  in  a  great  tumult, 
jumping,  barking,  and  galloping  ahead  of  Marban,  who 
was  chewing  away  at  the  idea  of  how,  in  the  name  of  this 
and  that,  he  was  ever  to  get  away  from  Crith  Gaille.  It 
would  be  a  fine  thing,  he  was  saying  to  himself,  if  I  up 
and  told  these  fine  ladies:  my  dogs  are  on  the  trail  of  a 
wolf;  I  must  after  them.  And  that's  the  very  thing  he 
would  have  done  if  he'd  any  luck.  But  a  wolf  that  was 
lying  in  a  thicket  was  startled  out  of  it,  and  the  three 
dogs  overtook  him  at  the  end  of  the  glade.  A  good  fight 
it  was,  for  the  wolf  was  in  his  prime,  and  had  there  been 
but  two  dogs  at  him  instead  of  three  he  might  have 
overcome  them  and  got  away.  But  he  couldn't  fight  his 
way  past  three.  He  broke  Crede's  paw  in  a  snap,  and  took  a 
lump  out  of  Cathba's  throat,  but  while  he  was  doing  them 
deeds,  Duban  got  him  by  the  windpipe,  and  the  wolf 
gave  in.  Terrible  animals  wolves;  and  the  Irish  wolf  was 
as  bad  and  worse  than  the  Pyrenean  fellow. 

I  never  saw  a  wolf  fight  like  that  one,  said  Marban. 
But  what  ailed  the  beast  to  be  lying  out  in  that  copse?  he 
said  to  himself,  for  he  has  knocked  my  plans  upside  down. 

The  rest  of  the  day  went  doctoring  Crede's  broken  paw 
and  Cathba's  wound.     So  busy  was  he  attending  the  dogs 


A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      121 

he  forgot  night  was  coming  on,  and  he  had  no  more  eaten 
his  supper  when  the  door  opened  and  Blathnat  came  in, 
and  she  in  her  night-shirt.  We  go  to  bed  early  in  this  con- 
vent, she  said.  Does  it  be  like  that  with  you  away  in  the 
Pyrenees?  Marban  was  hard  set  to  answer  her,  so  dry  was 
his  throat,  and  his  heart  misgave  him,  for  Blathnat's  voice 
was  winning,  and  he  liked  the  pale  brown  hair  showing 
under  the  coif  she  was  taking  off  her  head.  Seeing  that 
the  monk  was  beginning  to  shiver  and  shake  she  stopped 
undressing  to  reprove  him,  saying,  in  a  quiet,  even  voice, 
that  he  must  smother  that  look  of  fear  on  his  face,  and 
that  he  could  count  on  her  to  see  him  through  the  worst 
of  the  temptation.  Do  you  be  putting  your  trust  in  me, 
she  said,  and  leave  shivering  and  shaking,  for  while  I'm 
here  there's  nothing  can  harm  you.  But  before  we  lie 
down  tell  me  what  happened  last  night  between  yourself 
and  herself,  Brother  Marban.  He  told  her  the  truth, 
only  leaving  out  that  perhaps  it  was  the  fatigue  of  his 
journey  had  made  him  able  to  lie  alongside  the  Mother 
Abbess's  side  without  a  kick  in  him.  I  understand  you 
well,  Sister  Blathnat  said.  After  forty  no  woman  is  what 
she  used  to  be,  though  for  her  age  there  isn't  a  finer 
woman  in  Ireland  than  herself,  and  there  was  a  day  when 
she  would  raise  up  temptation  in  the  stones.  Sister 
Blathnat,  the  young  man  answered,  from  one  year's  end 
to  the  other,  we  don't  see  a  woman  in  the  cells  beyond, 
and  we  think  it  well  enough  to  live  without  sin.  Now  if 
there  is  no  temptation  there's  no  merit,  not  a  scrap,  she 
said,  and  he  replied  to  her  that  he  had  talked  that 
question  over  the  night  before.  This  is  what  I  want  to 
ask  you  now,  said  he.  Is  it  true  that  none  of  the  monks 
from  Bregen  have  fallen  into  sin?  Tell  me  that  now, 
said  he,  and  the  question  seemed  to  fall  so  innocently 
from  his  lips  that  it  startled  Sister  Blathnat  so  much  that 
she  said:  if  that  be  the  way  you're  going  to  talk,  per- 
haps another  nun  had  better  lie  with  you,  and  she  was 


122      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

making  her  way  towards  the  door  when  Brother  Marban 
said: 

Oh,  Sister  Blathnat,  if  it  must  be  that  I  lie  with  any, 
let  it  be  with  you,  for  you've  a  kind  face  and  you'll  keep 
the  devil  out  of  my  mind.  And  she  said:  the  same 
words  prove  you  to  have  a  good  disposition  anyway. 
Maybe  I  made  a  mistake,  so  I'll  lie  with  you  without 
tempting  you  much.  But  before  lying  down  together  we 
will  say  a  little  prayer,  and  Marban  prayed  for  his  life, 
being  sore  afraid  both  of  her  and  of  the  monks  up  at 
Bregen. 

I  hope,  the  nun  said,  I've  not  kept  you  too  long  on 
your  knees.  You  have  not,  said  he;  not  so  long  as  herself 
last  night.  She  always  was  a  long  one  at  her  prayers, 
said  Blathnat.  We'll  strip  now,  said  she,  and  on  these 
words  he  put  off  the  cloak  and  unloosened  his  tunic. 
Look  at  me,  said  Sister  Blathnat.  Tell  me  now  if  I'm 
not  nicer  than  dear  mother  about  the  bosom?  And  the 
monk,  turning  round,  thought  that  he  never  saw  two 
breasts  prettier  or  whiter  than  Sister  Blathnat's.  Like 
two  white  birds  they  are,  he  said,  being  a  bit  of  a  poet. 
And  as  innocent,  she  added.  Now  kiss  the  crucifix  about 
your  neck,  and  then  kiss  me,  and  pray  that  the  temptation 
that  will  rise  up  in  you  shall  be  overcome.  I  will  pray 
indeed,  he  said.  I'll  pray  for  all  I'm  worth.  Faith  and 
troth,  you  are  a  holy  man,  she  said,  after  a  while,  for 
you're  lying  as  quiet  and  easy  by  my  side  as  a  man 
would  lie  by  the  side  of  his  brother.  I've  met  them  that 
were  more  restless  than  you,  and  they  advanced  in  years. 
Great  will  be  your  reward.  And  creeping  in  closer, 
she  began  telling  him  that  he  might  seek  her  shape 
behind  and  in  front,  wherever  he  pleased;  now  you  feel 
me,  she  said,  and  you  not  tempted  at  all.  I  am  tempted, 
indeed,  said  Brother  Marban,  and  what  I  see  in  front 
of  me  is  three  years  and  half  a  year  and  me  eating  dry 
bread  and  drinking  water  at  every  one  of  my  meals. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      123 

Starved  I'll  be,  God  help  me.  Then  have  recourse 
to  your  crucifix,  she  replied,  and  you'll  win  out.  Get  the 
best  of  the  devil,  said  she,  and  keep  your  grip  on  me. 
That's  right.  Now  lie  quietly  and  doze  a  little.  But 
there  was  no  doze  upon  him  that  night,  and  if  he  had  not 
the  bread  and  water  and  three  years  of  it  to  think  about, 
there's  no  knowing  what  would  have  happened.  After  a 
while  she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him,  saying: 
Brother  Marban,  I'll  be  leaving  you  now,  the  devil  has 
been  worsted  this  time  for  good  and  all,  though  one 
moment  I  did  think  I'd  got  a  sniff  of  him  from  under  the 
door.  Marban  agreed  to  that,  and  said  that  he  too  had 
smelt  the  old  boy,  and  that  it  was  well  for  both  of  them 
the  windows  and  doors  to  be  barred  the  way  they  were. 

And  then  they  fell  to  talking  of  the  crevices  the  old  man 
could  get  through  if  he  were  so  minded,  till  Sister  Blathnat 
said:  take  your  hands  from  my  breasts.  You've  been 
tempted  enough,  Brother,  and  God  would  not  wish  a  per- 
son to  be  tried  beyond  his  strength.  Sleep  well,  now,  like  I 
will  myself,  and  good-night  to  you,  she  said,  looking  at  him 
from  the  door  before  closing  it.  It's  just  as  well  that  he 
didn't,  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  stood  on  the  stairs;  it's 
always  better  in  the  end.  For  what  is  the  value  of  the  poor 
life  we're  living?  And  it  isn't  I  that  would  be  bringing 
disgrace  upon  it,  God  help  me,  and  on  myself,  and  on  our 
own  convent.  She  said  this  for  she  couldn't  get  it  out  of 
her  head  that  Marban  was  a  fresh  young  lad,  and  it  wasn't 
more  than  half-an-hour  after  getting  into  her  bed  before 
she  woke  up  with  a  scream  out  of  her,  and  starting  out  of 
her  bed  with  one  leap  she  got  to  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
the  other  nuns  coming  to  her,  saying:  what  is  it,  Blath- 
nat? Tell  us  what  it  is  now.  But  all  she  could  do  at 
first  was  to  stare  at  them,  her  senses  coming  back  to  her 
slowly,  saying:  it  was  only  a  dream,  thank  God.  That 
was  no  more  than  a  dream.  And  they,  guessing  that 
she  had  been  dreaming  of  the  young  man,  got  round  the 


124      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

bed,  and  she  told  them  all  she  had  done,  the  way  she  had 
put  herself  up  against  him  telling  him  that  he  must 
take  her  in  his  arms,  and  to  be  sure  and  say  a  prayer  lest 
the  devil  should  be  getting  the  better  of  him.  You  weren't 
tempted  yourself  at  all,  Sister?  said  one  of  them,  with 
a  look.  I  was,  faith,  said  she,  and  who  knows  what 
would  have  become  of  me,  for  there  was  a  swimming 
behind  my  eyes?  But  I  gave  a  Hail  Mary  and  got  rid 
of  it,  glory  be. 


CHAPTER  20. 

WELL,  there  they  were,  sitting  round  Sister  Blathnat's 
bed  just  as  I'm  telling  you,  and  they  settling  which 
of  them  was  to  give  the  poor  lad  his  share  of  trouble  on  the 
next  night.  The  monks  will  be  here  on  Saturday,  so  you 
three  can  lie  with  him,  Sister  Eorann,  Muirgil  and  Brigit, 
one  after  the  other;  as  soon  as  one  comes  out  the  other 
goes  in,  and  if  he  lies  quiet  while  you're  with  him,  there's 
no  doubt  but  they've  sent  us  a  great  saint  and  one  that 
will  do  honour  to  Ireland.  He's  a  holy  man,  indeed.  He's 
a  very  holy  man;  you  couldn't  stir  him  up  with  a  stick, 
said  the  Abbess.  These  were  her  very  words  as  they  have 
come  down  to  us  in  the  old  stories. 

But  which  of  us  shall  be  the  first  one  to  He  with  him? 
the  nuns  asked,  and  the  Mother  Abbess  answered:  you'll 
draw  lots,  and  on  this  she  got  three  straws  and  put  them 
in  a  box.  Whoever  draws  the  smallest  one  will  be  the 
first  to  lie  with  him.  And  the  first,  your  honour,  was 
Brigit,  and  the  second  Muirgil.  And  the  third  Eorann. 
That  was  the  way  of  it.  And  Brigit,  as  I  told  your 
honour,  was  a  thin  girl,  with  red  hair  ringletting  down 
her  rosy  cheeks,  who  if  she  hadn't  been  a  nun  she  might 
have  been  as  wicked  as  the  old  woman  of  Blair,  she  that 
lay  with  more  kings  than  any  other  woman  in  Ireland 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      125 

till  she  got  old  and  couldn't  manage  anything.  But  we 
mustn't  be  getting  into  another  story,  Alec  said.  Well, 
Marban  had  all  he  wanted  in  the  way  of  trouble  from 
that  one.  She  was  a  great  torment,  indeed,  turning  all 
his  senses  reeling,  and  setting  his  soul  fluttering  in  him, 
but  he  stood  his  ground,  for  the  grace  of  God  was  on  him 
that  night.  And  when  the  Abbess  gave  a  ring  of  the  bell, 
Brigit  said:  'tis  time  for  me  to  be  off;  you're  a  great  man 
and  a  holy  man,  for  you've  lain  very  quietly  by  me  con- 
sidering everything.  I  tried  you  deeply,  Brother,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  done  it  only  they  were  bragging  about  the 
piety  that  is  in  you,  and  in  you  it  surely  is. 

The  door  opened,  and  as  Sister  Brigit  went  out  Sister 
Muirgil  went  in,  saying,  as  she  passed  the  other  one:  I 
can  see  by  your  face,  Brother  Marban,  I  can  see  that 
you've  been  greatly  tried  by  Sister  Brigit,  who  is  famous  all 
over  Ireland  for  the  tests  and  the  trials  she  puts  on  the  men. 
While  saying  these  words  she  slipped  off  the  gown;  and 
she  stood  up,  one  of  them  round  figures,  with  plenty  of 
shape  despite  the  flesh  that  God  has  put  upon  them,  and 
with  one  shape  in  her  that  struck  the  saint's  eyes :  she  did 
not  go  in  at  the  knees,  her  thighs  sloping  down  into  her 
ankles,  and  from  that  out  into  her  feet.  And  when  his 
hand  passed  over  the  limbs  and  between  them,  anything 
might  have  befallen  him  if  she  hadn't  been  a  kind-hearted 
woman.  But  seeing  the  trouble  he  was  in,  she  folded 
him  in  her  arms  just  as  his  mother  used  to  when  he  was  a 
gossoon,  and  said :  we'll  say  Our  Father  together.  A  Hail 
Mary  might  bring  me  more  relief,  he  answered.  Muirgil 
laughed  at  that,  and  tossed  her  hair  from  her  little  round 
forehead,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  time  she  told  him  stories 
about  the  monks  at  Bregen,  and  how  anxious  they  all  were 
to  be  tempted  by  her  and  to  resist  the  temptations,  for  all 
thought  of  this  earth,  said  she,  was  gone  clean  out  of  their 
minds,  only  of  heaven  do  they  be  thinking,  and  that's  what 
puts  the  great  strength  in  them.     And  she  told  him  she 


126      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

got  into  the  same  way  of  thinking  herself,  but  there  were 
times  when  she  could  only  get  a  grip  on  the  things  of  this 
world.  And  then  the  things  of  the  other  world  didn't 
seem  worth  a  lot,  which  put  a  great  fright  into  the  monk's 
mind  that  while  she  was  with  him  she  might  be  thinking 
too  much  of  the  things  of  this  world  and  not  enough  of 
heaven;  but  it  was  all  to  the  differ,  for  after  a  bit  she 
quieted  down.  Now  I  must  be  leaving  you,  she  said,  for 
Sister  Eorann  will  be  here  in  a  moment  or  two,  rousing  you 
up  again  and  doing  her  best  against  you.  But  you  will  be 
a  match  for  her,  won't  you,  now?  You  don't  fear  her.  Do 
you  now?  Ah!  It's  a  shame,  so  it  is,  for  you're  only  a 
boy,  and  she's  educated.  You're  not  afraid,  are  you?  said 
she,  and  she  gave  him  another  kiss. 

Not  a  great  deal,  he  answered  cheerfully,  for  he  was 
like  a  man  closer  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  or  one  that  had 
come  very  nearly  to  the  top,  and  sees  the  ring  of  day 
breaking  all  around  him.  He  was  proud,  to  be  sure,  and 
that  sort  of  pride  is  what  the  clergy  calls  the  spiritual 
elation  that  comes  on  a  man  when  he  has  beaten  the 
devil.  And  well  he  might  be  proud,  I  say,  for  himself 
and  four  fine  women  had  defeated  and  murdered  the  devil 
in  four  great  battles.  As  he  gave  a  twist  in  the  bed,  he 
remembered  that  his  fight  had  been  stiffer  than  any  the 
monks  had  waged,  for  weren't  they  and  the  nuns  all 
known  to  each  other  for  years  past  as  confessors  and 
penitents?  And  with  that  thought  he  got  twice  as  proud. 
The  fresh  enemy  is  the  stiffest  to  conquer,  said  he  to 
himself,  and  now  the  old  boy  is  to  deliver  the  last  assault, 
which  will  be,  I  am  thinking,  no  great  matter  for  me  to 
overcome.  She  isn't  to  my  liking,  and  that's  no  gain  to 
me,  but  I've  won  such  a  load  of  honour  as  it  is,  that  God 
himself  will  be  hard  set  to  find  a  reward  that  he  can  offer 
me  without  shame  to  himself.  Here  she  comes,  the  hind 
end  of  the  temptations,  and  he  drew  the  blanket  up  to 
his  chin  and  let  on  to  be  asleep. 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      127 

Asleep  you  are,  Marban,  said  Eorann,  when  her  turn 
came,  or  is  it  only  falling  asleep  you  are  without  a  thought 
for  me  at  all?  The  other  ones  wore  you  out,  but  them 
ones  would  make  anybody  tired.  I  drew  the  bad  number 
myself.  Number  three  it  is.  A  holy  number  and  lets 
you  in  for  all  the  poor  jobs.  Won't  you  wake  up  now  and 
let  me  into  your  bed?  I'm  nearly  as  tired  as  you  are  with 
the  time  I  was  waiting  and  all.  Even  if  there's  no 
temptation  between  the  pair  of  us,  said  Marban,  you  can 
get  into  the  bed.  After  a  while,  said  she:  have  you  got 
no  eyes  for  me  at  all,  or  a  pair  of  hands  on  yourself?  I've 
all  them,  Marban  thought,  but  he  didn't  say  a  word,  for 
he  couldn't  think  of  what  to  say,  and  being  a  polite  man 
he  didn't  like  to  say:  lie  quiet  in  the  bed  now  like  a  good 
girl,  and  let  me  be.  His  weakness  was  kindness,  and  so 
he  took  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her  and  said:  I've 
said  that  many  prayers  this  night  that  the  devil  is  driven 
out  of  the  convent  entirely;  not  a  sniff  of  him  do  we  get, 
not  one  is  upon  you  nor  is  there  one  upon  me.  We're 
wasting  time,  said  Eorann.  She  commenced  to  cry  with 
her  head  on  Marban's  shoulder,  and  soon  her  tears  were 
running  down  his  neck,  first  hot  and  then  cold,  and  then 
tickling  him  like  a  troop  of  fleas.  He  asked  her  what  she 
was  crying  for,  and  she  said:  I  did  hope  to  get  a  great 
reward  with  you  in  heaven,  but  you  won't  not  so  much 
as  look  at  a  girl.  'Tis  a  poor  thing  and  a  hard  thing  to 
be  a  nun  in  this  place.  Just  because  I  happened  to  pull 
the  wrong  straw,  bad  luck  to  the  same  straw,  I'm  left 
without  any  way  of  earning  a  place  in  heaven.  It  would 
make  you  think  that  heaven  itself,  like  earth,  is  all 
favoritism. 

You  must  not  be  talking  like  that,  Sister.  'Tis  easy  for 
you,  full  of  glory  the  way  you  are  this  night,  but  here's 
myself  with  nothing  to  do.  And  she  bent  down  her  head 
on  to  his  shoulder  and  whispered:  can't  you  tempt  me  a 
little?  and  handling  him  freely,  she  said:  it's  not  so  bad 


128      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

after  all,  for  you're  beginning  to  be  restless,  and  that's  a 
sign,  and  when  you're  a  little  more  so,  we'll  have  to  begin 
to  say  our  prayers,  or  we're  a  lost  pair.  What  is  that  I 
hear?  Marban  cried.  'Tis  only  myself  talking  to  you. 
But  I  hear  a  sound  from  the  forest!  'Tis  nothing,  she 
said.  'Tis  the  hunters  following  the  wild  swine  at  the 
ring  of  day.     Don't  mind  them,  but  mind  myself. 

A  great  and  wonderful  music  there  is,  he  said,  in  the 
sound  of  a  horn  heard  far  away  in  the  depth  of  the  forest. 
A  fine  sound  it  is  for  the  laity  to  be  listening  to,  she 
replied,  but  we  should  be  thinking  of  the  trumpets  of 
heaven  which  the  angels  will  be  sounding  to  awaken  us 
from  the  dead,  and  our  Lord  coming  on  the  clouds  to 
reward  us.  And  let  me  tell  you  this,  there  won't  be  as 
much  as  the  ghost  of  a  reward  for  me  if  you  lie  there 
with  your  ears  cocked  listening  to  the  horn  the  way 
you're  doing  now.  The  horn  is  nearer  now  than  it  was, 
Marban  answered.  'Tis  only  the  echo  of  the  horn  that 
you  do  be  hearing,  and  on  this  earth  there's  nothing 
more  treacherous  than  the  horn,  and  she  sent  a  wet 
stream  of  tears  down  into  his  neck  the  way  he  thought 
he  would  have  to  be  swimming  for  his  life  in  another 
minute. 

Let  me  up,  he  said.  Let  me  up  out  of  this  bed.  One 
horn,  two  horns,  three  horns,  and  they  sounding  from 
different  sides.  'Tis  a  company  that  must  be  hunting 
after  the  boar.  Forget  the  boar,  she  cried,  and  lie  here, 
and  take  your  ease.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  but  he  said 
to  himself:  I've  earned  a  big  enough  reward. 

The  monks  at  Bregen — he  began.  But  she  rapped  out: 
what  good  are  they  to  us?  And  what  good  are  you?  I'm 
only  wasting  my  time  here.  Good-bye,  Marban,  and  'tis 
the  great  talk  I  shall  be  having  with  the  Abbess  about 
the  great  power  that  God  has  given  you,  and  the  prayers 
you  have  offered  up  with  me.  We  haven't  said  many 
prayers,  said  Marban.     If  we  haven't  said  them  out  we've 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      129 

said  them  in,  she  added,  and  hurried  away  to  tell  the 
Mother  Abbess  about  the  holiness  of  the  man  she  had 
been  lying  with  and  that  they  all  should  be  thankful  to 
the  Lord  for  sending  them  such  a  man. 


CHAPTER  21. 

NEVER  have  I  lain  with  a  man  as  quiet  as  this  one, 
Eorann  repeated,  as  she  went  upstairs.  I  might  as 
well  have  been  in  bed  with  my  mother.  Will  you  be  tell- 
ing me,  said  the  Mother  Abbess,  who  was  waiting  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  that  he  didn't  leave  his  bed  once  to  dip 
himself  in  the  cistern?  I  will  so,  said  the  nun;  he  lay 
by  my  side  talking  to  me  about  horns  that  he  was  hearing 
far  out  in  the  forests.  That's  a  great  saint,  I'm  thinking, 
said  Mother  Abbess.  That's  a  very  great  saint,  surely. 
There  isn't  a  monk  of  the  monks  at  Bregen  is  holier  than 
him,  not  the  Abbot  himself,  though  perhaps  I  shouldn't 
be  saying  it,  and  he  earning  great  glory  with  all  of  you 
these  last  ten  years;  and  with  myself  off  and  on  for  the 
last  twenty.  But  he  isn't  as  big  a  saint  as  that  lad,  I'm 
thinking.  True  enough  we're  stale  to  him  now,  and  men 
that  are  seventy-five  take  a  deal  of  stirring,  but  a  little 
virgin  like  Luachet  might  set  up  a  great  burning  in  him 
that  our  Lord  would  be  greatly  gratified  to  see  overcome. 
'Tis  a  great  thought  surely  that  has  come  to  you,  dear 
Mother.  Let  Sister  Luachet  lie  with  Brother  Marban. 
It  would  be  a  poor  thing  indeed  if  a  holy  man  like  him 
should  be  denied  all  the  chances  that  the  earth  can  give 
him  of  getting  a  good  place  up  above.  I  am  in  the  one 
mind  with  you,  the  Mother  Abbess  answered.  But  what 
about  the  Abbot?  He'll  be  missing  his  last  chance.  Why 
should  he  be  missing  it  indeed?  Won't  Luachet  be  the 
same  coming  from  Marban's  bed  as  she  went  into  it? 


130      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

Blathnat  asked.  She  will  not,  the  Mother  Abbess 
answered,  for  'tis  the  thought  that  she  has  never  lain  by 
a  man's  side  before  that  I'm  counting  on  to  stir  up  the 
devil  in  our  good  Abbot,  for  the  last  time;  the  man's 
years  are  three  score  years  and  ten,  and  for  a  while  back 
he   hasn't   been    looking   himself   at   all.     Ah!     well,    I 

remember  the  time  when  he 

But  you  needn't  be  telling  him,  cried  Sister  Blathnat, 
butting  into  the  middle  of  the  Abbess's  recollections. 
I  wouldn't  say  that,  the  Mother  Abbess  answered;  once 
you  begin  telling  lies  there's  no  end  to  them.  Won't 
Luachet  be  getting  her  experience  from  Marban?  Eorann 
murmured  slyly.  True  for  you,  replied  the  Abbess.  A 
little  knowledge  of  mankind  in  her  won't  be  amiss  when 
it  comes  to  her  turn  to  get  into  bed  with  the  Abbot,  if 
it  ever  does  come,  for  it  was  a  bad  account  we  had  of  him 
a  week  ago,  and  the  cough's  worse.  But  isn't  it  the  truth, 
said  Sister  Blathnat,  that  the  Abbot  would  like  a  man 
that  had  resisted  all  of  us,  and  we  all  fresh  to  him,  to  be 
allowed  the  advantage  of  Luachet?  I  wouldn't  be  saying 
he  wouldn't,  the  Abbess  answered.  A  man's  luck  is  his 
own  luck,  and  isn't  it  a  great  thing  that  he  should  come 
here  and  show  all  that  holiness?  It  would  be  no  good  thing 
for  us  if  we  denied  him  what  God  wishes  him  to  receive. 
Now,  my  dear,  and  she  turned  round  to  Luachet,  you've 
been  listening  to  what  we  said,  and  as  the  day  is  done,  put 
aside  the  vestment  that  you're  making  for  the  Abbot,  and 
go  to  the  oak  chest  yonder  and  take  out  of  the  orris  root 
and  lavender  the  finest  linen  garment,  and  remember  that, 
lying  by  our  brother,  you  will  be  as  pleasing  in  God's  sight 
as  you  are  here  stitching  a  vestment  for  the  holy  Mass.  A 
beautiful  one  it  will  be,  she  continued,  and  she  held  up 
the  white  satin  chasuble,  embroidered  with  gold,  for  the 
nuns  to  admire — the  one  the  Abbot  was  to  wear  on  his 
seventy -fifth  birthday,  when  he  would  celebrate  High  Mass 
for  them  all.     'Tis  Luachet  is  the  fine  stitcher,  God  be 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      131 

praised,  our  little  Luachet;  but  a  much  finer  offering  than 
the  vestment  she  will  be  herself  beside  the  holy  man 
below  stairs,  and  on  these  words  she  took  the  child  to 
her  bosom  and  asked  her  if  she  was  afraid. 

Afraid,  Mother?  Why  should  I  be  afraid,  since  it  is 
you  who  are  sending  me  to  this  stranger,  a  holy  man,  as 
all  the  sisters  here  have  proven  him  to  be? 

Could  the  child  say  better  than  that?  the  Mother  Abbess 
said,  turning  to  her  nuns.  And  they  all  said  she  couldn't 
and  that  no  one  could.  She  turned  again  to  Luachet:  get 
yourself  ready  now.  Wash  your  hair  the  way  there'll  be  a 
gloss  on  it.  Look  at  the  gold  that  is  shining  through  it, 
and  isn't  she  as  nice  and  as  graceful  as  a  little  kitten?  A 
great  temptation,  surely,  that  none  should  venture  into 
but  the  holiest.  Go  and  get  ready,  Luachet,  and  don't  be 
shy,  for  there's  no  good  in  that;  let  him  win  the  greatest 
prize  of  all.  Do  you  hear  me  now,  she  said;  be  not  shy 
but  push  yourself  up  against  him  and  kiss  him  in  the  nape 
of  his  neck.  You  may  do  that,  for  it's  your  business  to 
wake  up  the  old  man  in  him  if  you  can,  and  we'll  be  pray- 
ing for  you  while  we  are  getting  to  our  beds,  and  till  we 
fall  asleep  prayers  will  be  on  our  lips.  We  shall  be  chanting 
the  psalms  at  midnight,  and  from  lauds  to  complin,  thank- 
ing God  for  the  honour  we  shall  be  earning,  for  to-morrow 
every  nun  of  the  nuns  in  this  place  will  get  from  me  fifty 
smacks  of  the  ferule  on  her  hand.  Go,  dear  child,  and 
remember  all  I've  told  you,  for  there  is  nothing  that  gives 
more  pleasure  in  heaven  than  seeing  the  man  denying 
himself  the  woman  and  they  both  in  the  one  bed. 

'Tis  time  for  us  to  be  going  to  our  rest,  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  other  nuns;  but  you  won't  forget,  my  children, 
what  I  told  Sister  Luachet,  to  be  praying  well  for  her, 
and  all  the  nuns  said  they  would  do  that  and  that  they 
would  do  it  well  until  the  sleep  came. 


132      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


CHAPTER  22. 

NOR  did  one  of  them  break  her  promise,  and  out  of  bed 
the  whole  lot  of  them  were  at  midnight,  chanting  the 
psalms,  till  at  last  the  Mother  Abbess  said:  now,  children, 
here's  the  day  beginning  in  the  east.  The  time  has  come 
for  me  to  use  the  ferule  onto  your  hands.  On  these 
words  she  turned  to  the  press  in  which  she  kept  the 
thong,  and  all  the  nuns  wincing  and  watching,  knowing 
well  the  length  of  the  handle  and  the  breadth  and  the 
hardness  of  the  leather,  and  being  faint-hearted,  as  all 
women  are,  they  would  have  been  glad  to  do  without  the 
bit  of  merit  they  would  earn  if  they  could  be  let  off  the 
slaps,  for  the  morning  was  bitter  cold. 

Maybe  your  hands  are  sore,  the  Mother  Abbess  said, 
as  the  last  nun  retired,  holding  her  bruised  hands  between 
her  knees,  but  my  own  back  is  broken  the  way  I  have 
to  leather  the  lot  of  you  into  heaven.  'Tis  I  myself 
should  be  getting  whatever  recompense  is  going,  for  my 
loins  are  cracked  on  me  and  I've  a  pain  in  my  head. 
Now  will  you  have  finished  with  the  moaning  and  the 
tears,  and  think  a  bit  of  the  way  the  Lord  suffered  on  the 
cross,  and  of  the  way  Marban  is  suffering  now  and  he  up 
against  our  little  Luachet's  thighs.  She  is  staying  with 
him  a  long  while  now.  Too  long,  indeed,  for  there  ought 
to  be  an  end  to  everything,  and  great  saint  as  the  man  is, 
he  shouldn't  get  it  too  heavy.  Are  they  chanting  psalms 
together?  We  might  do  well  to  hear  them,  for  to  see  or  to 
hear  the  holy  is  next  door  to  being  holy. 

Down  went  the  lot  of  them,  stepping  on  the  tips  of 
their  toes  for  fear  they  might  disturb  the  saints  in  their 
mutual  devotions.  Devotions  it  is,  said  the  Abbess,  for 
we  can  hear  their  voices  mingled  in  sweet  sighs.  But 
after  listening  a  little  while  longer  she  turned  to  Blathnat 
and  said:  your  ears  are  better  than  mine  maybe,  what  I 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      133 

hear  doesn't  sound  like  psalms.  Let  you  listen  now,  and, 
giving  her  place  to  the  nun,  she  waited.  After  listening, 
Blathnat  said:  Mother  Abbess,  it's  no  psalm  I'm  listening 
to.  That's  no  psalm  at  all.  Then  what  can  they  be 
doing  to  each  other?  And  it  isn't  prayers  that  I  hear 
either.     Them's  not  prayers. 

Then  give  your  place  to  Brigit,  who  may  hear  better. 
Yes,  let  me  listen,  said  Brigit,  and  she  cocked  her  ear 
to  the  keyhole.  Sister  Blathnat  is  right.  There  isn't 
a  psalm  in  it  of  all  the  psalms.  After  Brigit  it  came  to 
Eorann  to  put  her  ear  to  the  keyhole,  and  having  more 
courage  than  the  rest,  she  turned  to  the  Mother  Abbess, 
saying:  it's  like  the  doves  on  the  roof  they  are.  Like 
the  doves  on  the  roof?  cried  the  Mother  Abbess,  and  with 
a  great  fear  in  her  heart  she  put  her  ear  to  the  door, 
and  hearing  a  scream  that  could  be  none  else  than  a 
love  scream,  she  cried  out:  'tis  profanation  of  our  holy 
convent.  And  together  with  the  nuns  she  bumped  herself 
against  the  door  until  they  got  it  down.  Faith,  sir,  the 
pair  within  were  in  the  last  round  before  the  Abbess 
could  pull  the  clothes  from  off  the  bed,  and  tear  them 
asunder.  'Tis  all  over,  said  she;  the  tallow  is  spilt,  said 
she,  her  maidenhood  is  lost  to  the  Lord.  Woe  is  woe. 
Woe  to  the  Abbot.  Come  out  of  it,  daughters;  come  out, 
I  say,  for  the  devil  is  here,  and  here  he  may  stop.  Sin, 
sin,  she  said,  and  sin  on  the  top  of  sin.  It's  not  the  first;  it 
won't  be  the  last.  Come  out,  children.  Come  out  with 
yourselves  from  this  cell  of  sin.  Innocents  ye  are.  Get  out, 
I  say.  Isn't  that  one  the  divil?  Ah,  you'll  pay  for  it. 
You'll  pay  for  it.  Hell's  your  portion.  Hell  and  hot  water. 
Get  out,  I  say.  I'm  ruined.  I  am  so.  I'm  ruined.  Will 
ye  get  out,  or  will  ye  not  get  out?  I'll  skin  you  if  you 
don't  get  out.     Ah,  you  divil!     Ah,  you  divil! 

The  nuns  followed  her  out  to  the  terrace,  and  the  five 
of  them  walked  there,  never  addressing  a  word  the  one 
to  the  other  in  their  sorrow,  till  the  monks  began  to  come 


134      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

from  Bregen.  I  see  them  coming,  Mother,  Blathnat 
cried;  and  now  they've  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
for  the  Abbot  is  out  of  puff.  How  am  I  going  to  tell 
the  holy  man  about  that  pair?  God  help  me,  said  the 
Abbess.     What  am  I  going  to  say  to  him  at  all? 

I  think  I  mentioned  to  you,  sir,  that  the  Abbot  was 
at  this  time  seventy,  and  maybe  a  few  years  over.  My 
grandfather  wasn't  sure  but  it  was  eighty.  Thin  he  was, 
and  lean  and  shadowy,  frail  as  a  sick  bird,  he  used  to 
say.  I  liked  to  hear  him  tell  Marban's  story,  and  he 
told  it  so  often  to  me  that  there  was  a  time  when  I  had 
this  part  of  it  off  by  heart.  But  it  is  a  long  time  since 
I've  told  this  back  end  of  the  story.  It  not  being  to 
the  liking  of  them  that  do  be  asking  me  for  stories,  I 
leave  it  out.  Don't  leave  it  out  on  my  account,  Alec. 
Very  well,  sir,  I'll  tell  the  whole  of  it. 

My  daughter,  said  the  Abbot  to  the  Abbess,  who  had 
just  mentioned  that  she  had  a  tale  to  tell  him  sadder 
than  any  he  had  ever  heard,  it  must  be  a  very  sad  tale 
indeed,  for  I've  heard  my  share  of  sad  stories.  But  before 
you  hear  the  story,  said  she,  tell  me,  did  the  medicines 
I  sent  you  do  you  any  good?  You've  got  the  cough  on 
you  yet.  Thank  you,  my  daughter,  for  the  medicines; 
I  did  not  take  them,  feeling  sure  that  I'll  not  be  better 
than  I  am  this  side  of  Jordan.  But  won't  you  come 
inside,  she  said,  for  there's  a  wind  stirring  in  the  trees? 
A  pleasant  wind,  he  answered  her.  Get  me  a  chair  to 
sit  in.  She  cried  to  Blathnat:  find  my  Lord  Abbot  a 
chair,  and  bring  a  rug  for  him  as  well. 

When  he  was  seated  in  the  chair,  and  the  rug  tucked 
round  him,  he  said:  there's  one  thing  good  about  a  wolf, 
and  that's  his  fur.  Once  his  fur  is  taken  from  him  there's 
no  evil  in  him;  and  he  dipped  his  hand  into  the  fur  as  he 
might  into  the  holy -water  stoop  itself.  My  Lord  Abbot — 
the  nun  began,  and  she  stopped  as  a  horse  will  at  a  heap 
of  stones  on  the  road.     Go  on,  woman,  he  said:  there  are 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      135 

words  for  everything;  out  with  your  story.  Well,  she 
said,  you  know  about  Marban.  Know  about  Marban? 
said  the  Abbot.  Why,  wasn't  it  myself  that  wrote  to 
the  Abbot  in  the  Pyrenees  to  ask  him  to  send  Marban 
with  the  wolf-hounds?  Is  he  here?  and  how  many 
hounds  has  he  with  him?  He  has  three  hounds,  the 
Abbess  replied.  Then  all  is  well.  What!  Has  he 
been  wounded  on  the  way;  go  on,  woman.  But  instead 
of  doing  as  she  was  bid  she  started  asking  him  if  he 
had  taken  his  medicine,  and  other  foolish  questions, 
setting  him  coughing  again.  Go  on,  woman,  he  cried, 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  his  breath.     Go  on,  woman. 

How  long  has  Marban  been  here?  Go  on  with  your 
story,  and  be  delaying  no  longer  if  you'd  have  me  hear  it. 
You  see  the  state  I'm  in.  And  afraid  to  delay  any  longer, 
though  there  was  nothing  she  liked  better  than  dragging 
a  story  out  by  the  heels,  she  told  him  that  Marban  had 
been  with  them  for  three  or  four  days.  But  no  further 
could  she  go,  saying  that  she'd  rather  be  lying  dead  at  his 
feet  than  that  her  mouthi  should  be  telling  the  dreadful 
story,  and  much  more  rubbish  of  the  sort,  angering  the 
Abbot,  setting  him  coughing  till  he  might  have  choked 
as  much  with  anger  as  phlegm. 

Oh,  my  blessed  convent  ruined,  disgraced  by  him  whom 
we  took  to  be  the  holiest  man  in  Ireland,  saving  your 

Reverence's  presence He  may  be  easily  holier  than 

I  am  without  being  the  holiest  man  in  Ireland.  Go  on, 
my  sister,  say  what  you  have  inside  your  mouth.  Then, 
with  many  sobs  and  waving  of  hands,  for  she  was  one  of 
them  high-flown  women,  she  told  the  story,  watching  the 
Abbot's  face  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  all  the  while. 
But  so  distracted  was  he  by  his  cough  that  it  wasn't  till 
she  came  to  telling  him  how  she  wished  to  benefit  him 
that  she  knew  for  sure  he'd  been  listening  to  her,  for 
then  he  gave  a  little  smile,  but  it  soon  died  away  and  his 
face  darkened  again. 


136      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

It's  the  custom  of  our  country  to  put  ourselves  into 
temptations,  said  he,  so  that  we  may  be  more  pleasing  in 
God's  sight.  I've  done  as  others  have  done;  and  with 
God's  grace  came  safely  through  many  perils.  I  thank 
you  for  your  heavenly  thoughts  of  me,  but  I'm  glad  I  was 
spared  the  pain  of  refusing  the  last  trial,  as  I  would  have, 
for  it's  God's  truth  that  it  would  have  been  no  trial  to  me 
at  all,  as  my  condition  makes  plain  to  you.  You're  not 
satisfied  with  what  I  did,  my  lord,  said  she.  I  am  so, 
the  Abbot  answered,  but  I've  often  had  my  doubts  about 
the  wisdom  and  the  humanity  of  these  same  trials,  and 
wondered  if  they  were  as  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  God  as 
we  think  they  are,  and  if  we  hadn't  better  accept  mankind 
as  God  made  it  without  trying  to  remake  it  for  him  our- 
selves. Let  me  see  Marban  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say 
for  himself.  Bring  Luachet  to  me  too;  she  may  have  a 
word  to  put  in  about  her  own  transgressions.  But  as  a 
stock  she  stood  before  him,  having  lost  her  wits  entirely. 
Woman,  will  you  be  doing  my  bidding?  And  she  went 
away,  sure  to  find  them,  for  hadn't  she  the  sinners  under 
lock  and  key? 

We're  greatly  afeared,  said  the  nuns  one  to  the  other, 
as  soon  as  she  was  gone,  that  the  news  may  be  the  undoing 
of  the  last  thread  of  life.  Now  will  you  be  looking  at 
him  dozing  in  his  chair — wasted  like  the  hills  themselves, 
the  monks  answered.  But  will  he  be  turning  them  into 
the  wilderness  as  Abraham  did  Hagar?  Blathnat  asked, 
and  before  the  monks  could  give  her  an  answer  the 
Abbess  came  back  with  the  two  of  them — the  girl 
crying,  for  she  was  right  frightened,  but  Marban  with  a 
face  on  him  grey  as  a  stone  until  he  caught  sight  of 
the  Abbot. 

I'm  sorry,  my  Lord  Abbot he  began. 

I'm  at  the  end  of  the  plank,  Marban,  but  don't  be 
thinking  about  my  cough;  pay  no  heed  to  it.  We  pray 
that  God  will  spare  you  to  us  for  many  years,  Marban 


a  Story-teller's  holiday     137 

answered.  There  are  few  years  in  front  of  me  if  there's 
a  year  itself,  said  the  Abbot.  But  this  is  a  bad  tale 
they've  been  telling  me  about  you.  It  is,  indeed,  a  bad 
tale,  so  it  is,  in  their  minds,  was  the  answer  the  Abbot 
got  from  Marban.  Would  you  have  me  think  that  they 
have  told  it  falsely?  the  Abbot  whispered.  Stories  are 
told  and  taken  the  way  we  understand  them,  Marban 
answered,  and  these  women  look  on  me  as  an  evil-doer, 
it  being  true  that  I've  broken  the  rule.  But  an  evil-doer 
by  nature  I'm  not,  as  you  can  learn  for  yourself  if  you'll 
write  a  letter  to  my  own  abbot.  The  monks  beyond 
know  me  there  day  in  and  day  out,  and  no  man  can  be 
fooling  a  whole  monastery  day  in  and  day  out  for  ten 
years,  as  you  will  know,  none  better  than  yourself,  my 
Lord  Abbot;  and  they'll  tell  you  that  I  was  decent  ever 
since  I  went  to  live  with  them  and  that  they  wouldn't 
take  me  nor  make  me  out  to  be  what  the  nuns  think. 

You  would  plead,  Marban,  said  the  Abbot,  that  there 
are  temptations  against  which  no  man's  strength  is  enough; 
that  the  temptation  might  be  increased  till  the  saints 
themselves  fall.     But  St  Anthony 

I'm  not  comparing  myself  with  anyone,  my  Lord  Abbot. 
All  I  want  is  to  tell  my  tale  and  get  it  out  of  me.  The 
Mother  Abbess  has  told  hers,  and  you've  a  right  to  tell 
yours;  go  on  with  it,  said  the  Abbot.  I  thank  you  for 
that,  Marban  answered  my  Lord  Abbot,  and  as  for  my 
story,  you  know  most  of  it  yourself  as  well  as  I  do  myself : 
that  I  left  this  country  no  more  than  a  gossoon,  not  know- 
ing a  word  about  the  way  they  crucify  the  body  in  this 
place  for  the  love  of  God  and  to  win  a  prize  in  heaven. 
I  went  away  knowing  nothing  at  all  of  the  customs  of  the 
old  country,  and  returned  as  ignorant  of  them  as  the  day 
I  took  ship  for  Bordeaux,  as  I  told  the  Mother  Abbess, 
and  likewise  too  did  I  tell  her  that  the  custom  of  the 
temptations  had  been  stopped  in  France  in  the  years 
back,  it  not  having  been  found  to  work  well  at  all  in 


138      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

France.  But  she  told  me  Ireland  was  the  land  of  saints 
and  France  was  the  land  of  lechers  and  wantons;  and  she 
said  that  I'd  have  to  prove  myself,  and  show  what  I  was, 
and  that,  being  a  young  man,  she  would  let  me  off  from 
the  young  sisters  and  would  lie  with  me  herself  to  give 
me  an  easier  time. 

I  was  shy,  and  that  prevented  me  from  saying  no  to  her 
offer  of  the  bed.  I  should  have  said  no;  but  she  would 
have  thought  I  meant  that  what  she  said  about  France 
was  true.  I've  no  answer  to  make  against  the  charge  of 
cowardice  nor  any  excuse  on  that  head.  And  I've  no 
answer  to  make  against  the  charge  of  vanity,  for  after 
having  proved  I  could  stand  up  against  the  flesh  and  the 
devil  in  five  combats  I  may  have  said  to  myself  that  I'd 
show  these  nuns  how  a  man  may  live  in  holiness  out  of 
Ireland  as  well  as  in  Ireland. 

This  idea  of  mine  was  helped  maybe  by  the  fact  that 
I've  lived  a  chaste  life  ever  since  I  told  to  you,  long  ago, 
my  lord,  that  I  wanted  to  dedicate  my  life  to  the  service 
of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  You  can  get  the  truth  of  it 
from  my  own  monastery,  and  you  can  get  the  proof  of  it 
here  from  the  nuns  themselves;  ask  of  the  nuns  that  lay 
with  me,  and  every  one'll  tell  you,  if  she  doesn't  tell  a  lie, 
that  our  embraces  were  according  to  the  rule.  It's  not 
a  small  thing,  my  lord,  and  I'm  telling  you  what  you 
know  yourself,  for  a  young  man  to  stand  out  against  five 
women,  one  after  the  other,  and  all  of  them  naked  in  his 
bed.  If  I'd  been  a  bad  one  I'd  have  given  in  at  the  first 
go  off  to  the  lusts  that  every  woman  awakens  in  every 
man,  but  the  nuns  can  tell  you  the  same  thing.  I  resisted 
the  whole  lot  of  them  as  well  as  the  monks  there  around 
about  you,  and  as  well  as  you  did  yourself,  my  Lord  Abbot. 
My  son,  said  the  Abbot,  after  he  got  a  venomous  cough 
up  out  of  his  throat,  we  have  all  resisted  the  nuns  at  Crith 
Gaille.  You  were  all  well  known  the  one  to  the  other, 
my  lord,  and  where  there's  no  novelty  there  isn't  much 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      139 

temptation,  for  it's  novelty  and  strangeness  is  the  devil's 
strongest  weapon  against  man.  The  women  here  were  all 
new  to  me,  but  I  resisted  them  all,  though  I'm  younger 
and  a  lot  younger  than  the  youngest  man  I  see  in  front 
of  me,  and  'tis  for  that  I'm  confident  and  sure  that  I  only 
speak  the  truth  when  I  say  that  last  night  I  fell  to  her 
who  was  destined  for  my  arms,  for  my  lips,  and  for  my 
usage  only. 

Luachet  is  beautiful,  but  it  wasn't  her  body  altogether 
that  drew  me.  Well,  this  much  I  can  say  with  truth,  that 
there  is  something  beyond  the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  desire 
of  the  flesh,  something  that  is  beyond  the  mind  itself,  and 
maybe  that  thing  is  the  soul;  and  maybe  the  soul  is  love, 
and  whosoever  comes  upon  his  soul  is  at  once  robbed  of 
all  thought  and  reason,  and  becomes  like  a  flower.  It  was 
like  that  with  me  when  my  mother  told  me  about  our 
Lord  Jesus'  appearance  in  Galilee,  and  about  his  suffering 
and  his  death,  for  you'll  remember  it,  my  Lord  Abbot,  that 
I  went  to  yourself  and  told  you  that  the  love  of  Jesus  was 
in  my  head  ever  since  I  heard  the  story  from  my  mother, 
and  that  I  wanted  to  lose  myself  in  love  of  him.  And 
last  night  I  was  carried  away  just  as  I  was  on  that  first 
occasion,  and  I  somehow  cannot  believe  it  true  that  my 
love  of  her  will  rob  me  of  my  love  of  Jesus,  nor  that  her 
love  for  me  will  rob  him  of  her  love,  for  in  our  hearts  it  is 
all  one  and  the  same  thing,  and  aren't  we  more  sure  that 
God  made  our  hearts  than  of  anything  else?  It  may  be, 
Marban  continued,  after  he  had  had  a  look  round,  that 
I  did  not  know  this  always.  It  may  be  that  yesterday 
I  would  have  denied  the  truth  of  what  I'm  now  saying 
to  you  all.  All  the  same  it  is  the  truth  I'm  telling  you, 
that  when  the  door  opened  and  Luachet  came  into  the 
room,  the  light  of  the  candle  that  was  in  her  hand  shining 
on  the  white  scriptures 

The  scriptures  tumbled  out  of  her  hand,  the  old  Abbot 
interrupted. 


140      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

They  did  not,  my  lord.  She  gave  them  to  me,  and  they 
made  plain  to  me  that  she  is  herself  a  good  part  of  me, 
my  scripture  for  ever,  as  long  as  this  life  lasts  in  me  and, 
if  I  may  say  it  without  heresy,  she'll  be  that  for  the  life 
everlasting  that's  to  come  with  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  As 
good  doctrine  as  I've  heard  this  many  a  day,  said  the 
Abbot,  and  what's  true  in  it  God  will  be  no  doubt  taking 
into  his  own  consideration  when  the  time  comes,  but  what 
answer  will  you  be  making  when  he  comes  to  ask  you  about 
your  broken  vows?  God  knows  as  well  as  your  Reverence 
that  the  ones  that  put  on  the  vows  can  take  off  the  vows, 
and  as  the  journey  before  me  is  a  long  one,  I'll  be  starting 
on  it  and  it  will  hearten  the  pair  of  us  to  have  the  blessing 
of  your  hand  and  your  voice  if  you  will  be  giving  it. 

I  can  and  I  will  give  it.  I'm  with  you  both  in  this  much 
that  I  hope  the  temptation  that  was  put  upon  you  will  be 
put  on  no  one  else  in  my  diocese. 

My  Lord  Abbot,  jerked  in  the  Abbess,  I'm  thinking  that 
you  shouldn't  be  staying  longer  in  the  air,  for  there's  a 
keenness  in  it,  and  a  great  draught,  and  your  soup  is  ready 
in  the  house.  My  soup,  I  thank  you  for  reminding  me 
of  it,  Mother  Abbess.  Have  you  only  scolding  for  me 
this  day,  your  Reverence,  and  I  sinking  under  the  trouble? 
she  said.  Scolding?  Have  I  not  said,  Mother  Abbess, 
that  I'm  at  the  end  of  the  plank,  and  the  flesh  is  liable 
to  a  shiver  or  two  when  it  comes  to  the  last  lep.  Is  it 
scolding  you  I  am?  I've  this  much  to  say,  Mother  Abbess, 
that  I've  had  my  doubts  about  these  temptations  for  a 
long  time,  and  it's  often  in  my  mind  that  at  the  heel  of 
the  hunt  some  poor  girl  would  be  left  on  her  back. 

He  knew,  said  Alec,  how  to  speak  up  to  her,  and  as 
small  as  a  mouse  making  off  through  a  chink  in  the  wain- 
scoting, she  brought  him  up  to  his  soup  in  the  big  room, 
tied  a  napkin  round  his  neck,  and  sat  watching  him  while 
he  drank  it.  At  another  table  the  nuns  were  giving  the 
monks  their  bit,  saying:  take  a  little  piece  of  this,  Father 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      141 

Bhendan;  that  bit  won't  lie  heavy  on  the  stomach.  But 
there  was  no  need  at  all,  for  they  were  all  men  of  fine 
appetites  and  had  gathered  a  lot  of  cold  air  into  their  bellies 
coming  down  from  Bregen.  It  was  Blathnat  alone  that  was 
a  bit  forgetful  of  the  guests,  and  seeing  her  making  off,  the 
nuns  began  to  ask  what  she  was  after,  passing  on  a  wink  and 
a  word  and  saying  that  she  always  had  something  in  her 
head,  but  not  guessing  at  all  that  Blathnat  was  thinking 
that  it  was  a  long  journey  from  Mayo  to  Waterford,  and  a 
dangerous  one,  everybody  except  them  in  the  monasteries 
going  his  own  gait,  and  a  lot  of  unfriendliness  in  the 
country,  the  same  as  now. 

Well,  she  overtook  them  on  the  fringe  of  the  forest  and 
pushed  a  basket  of  bread  over  Marban's  arm.  It  will  soon 
begin  to  weigh  heavy,  said  she,  but  Luachet  will  take  her 
turn  at  it,  and  turn  and  turn  about's  fair  play,  and  there  is 
here  within  this  basket  what  will  take  you  to  the  Shannon 
if  you're  careful  about  the  teeth.  Now  I  must  be  off  with 
myself;  good  luck  to  you.  And  with  that  she  gave  them 
both  a  kiss,  and  away  with  herself  on  her  own  road. 

They  stood  watching  the  glimpses  of  her  habit  flying 
through  the  trees,  and  they  silent  enough,  and  when 
there  was  no  more  of  her  to  be  seen  they  stepped  out  on 
their  journey  that  would  take  them  long  weeks,  long 
months.  We'll  get  to  WTaterford  before  the  summer  is 
out,  said  Marban,  according  to  our  luck.  But  Luachet, 
for  she  was  no  more  than  a  child,  didn't  care  how  long 
the  journey  lasted,  she  being  with  her  sweetheart,  and 
the  quiet  forest  all  round  them.  They  had  not  gone  far 
before  Marban  remembered  his  hounds,  and  he  would 
have  turned  back  for  them  but  Luachet  wasn't  a  bit  sure 
that  the  Mother  Abbess  would  let  her  go  with  him  the 
second  time,  and  she  said  she  would  die  of  fright  if  he 
left  her  in  the  forest  by  herself.  Marban  could  only 
listen  to  her  pretty  talk  and  look  down  into  her  clear, 
childish  eyes — still  childish,  for  up  to  last  night  she  knew 


142      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

nothing  of  life  at  all.  And  so  they  walked  and  wandered 
in  the  month  of  May,  seeing  the  ferns  uncurling  and  the 
speedwell  showing  between  the  ground  ivy;  and  listening 
to  all  the  singing  birds  and  eating  their  bread  where  the 
banks  were  mossy. 

We  still  hear  the  squeal  of  the  badger  in  these  parts, 
Alec  said,  and  there  were  many  more  animals  in  ancient 
Ireland — bears,  I  believe,  and  wolves  in  plenty  for  sure, 
and  it  was  the  thought  of  these  same  beasts,  and  every 
one  of  them  with  a  jowl  and  a  jaw,  that  put  the  shadow 
on  Marban's  face — a  shadow  that  distressed  Luachet 
when  she  came  running  back  to  him  with  her  hands  full 
of  ferns  and  wildings.  You're  not  sorry  you  came  away 
with  me?  she  asked.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  then  and 
kissed  her,  and  walking  on  together  through  the  woods, 
they  began  speaking  about  the  trees,  and  I  can  remember 
to  this  day  the  wonder  that  rose  up  in  me  when  I  heard 
my  grandfather  say  that  while  sitting  under  a  great  oak, 
where  they  were  to  sleep  that  night,  Luachet  said  to 
Marban:  I  don't  like  the  oak;  there's  no  welcome  in  it. 
The  oak  doesn't  invite  us  to  sit  beneath  its  branches  as 
the  beech  does.  But  Marban  answered  her:  you  mustn't 
be  saying  anything  against  the  oak.  And  she  said  she 
would  never  speak  against  the  oak  again  when  she  heard 
from  him  that  the  ribs  of  the  ship  that  had  brought 
Marban  to  Ireland  were  cut  out  of  an  oak-tree,  and  that 
the  ribs  of  the  ship  that  would  take  them  to  France 
would  likewise  be  made  of  the  oak.  It's  a  good  tree  then, 
Luachet  replied,  and  I  shall  be  loving  it  better.  But  why 
don't  you  love  it  now?  Marban  asked  her,  and  she  replied: 
it's  that  I'm  thinking  that  there  seems  to  be  an  un- 
friendly spirit  inside  of  the  tree  we're  sitting  under. 
That's  a  queer  thing  to  be  saying,  he  said,  and  I'm  think- 
ing that  you're  saying  hard  things  about  the  oak  because 
it's  leafless  in  the  month  of  May;  but  in  the  heel  of  the 
season,  when  the  acorns  do  be  dropping  through  the  still 


A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      143 

air,  it  is  a  rich  and  hospitable  tree  enough.  Let  the  oak 
be  friendly  to  the  pigs  but  I  would  sooner  be  sitting 
under  a  beech-tree,  was  her  answer  to  him.  Well,  that 
is  strange,  for  the  pigs  love  beech  mast  as  well  as  oak 
mast.  Now,  Marban,  will  you  be  telling  me  what  tree 
you're  most  disposed  to,  she  said,  for  they  must  be  all 
well  known  to  you  and  you  walking  along  through  the 
forests  from  Waterford?  What  tree  am  I  most  disposed 
to?  Marban  said.  Well,  taking  all  in  all,  it's  the  holly, 
for  it  sheltered  me  in  the  cold  March  nights.  And  he 
called  her  to  admire  one  near  by  under  whose  branches 
they  would  find  it  hard  to  squeeze  themselves.  And 
Marban  never  said  a  truer  word  than  this,  Alec  inter- 
jected, as  I  know  well  myself;  the  holly  is  as  good  as  a 
broken  house  to  a  man  on  a  winter's  night.  Luachet 
thought  that  the  leaves  looked  dark,  and  she  didn't  like 
the  thorns,  and  later  in  the  evening  she  stopped  before  a 
birch  and  said:  that  tree  is  more  beautiful  than  the 
holly.  And  Marban  answered  her  that  the  birch  rose  up 
as  sweetly  as  Luachet's  own  body,  and  he  said  that  the 
wind  in  the  tree  was  as  soft  as  her  voice.  It's  the  most 
musical  of  trees;  his  very  words  as  reported  by  my  grand- 
father, who  got  them  from  a  book.  Now  what  tree  is 
that  naked  one?  Luachet  asked.  That  one,  Marban 
answered,  is  the  ash,  the  last  one  in  the  forest  that  the 
summer  clothes  The  most  useful  of  the  many  that  God 
has  given  us,  he  added,  and  to  help  the  time  away  he 
told  her  it  was  the  ash  that  furnished  the  warrior  with 
fine  spears.  And  when  they  came  upon  a  hazel  copse, 
he  told  her  of  the  nuts  that  would  be  ripe  for  gathering 
in  the  autumn.  And  when  they  came  to  some  poplars, 
he  said  the  poplar  and  the  aspen  were  useless  trees, 
one  as  the  other,  the  poplar  giving  but  poor  shade 
to  the  wayfarer,  and  the  aspen  not  doing  much  better, 
a  ragged,  silly  tree,  shivering  always  as  with  ague. 
I  like  the  willow  better  to-day  than  I  did  yesterday. 


144      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

How  is  that?  she  said.  And  he  answered  her  that 
as  soon  as  they  came  to  a  willow  he  would  tell  her. 
See,  he  said,  how  faithfully  they  follow  the  brook, 
as  faithfully  as  I  shall  follow  you,  Luachet,  listening 
to  your  talk  of  your  mouth,  bending  my  ear  to  it,  the 
way  the  willows  listen  to  the  rippling  water.  And 
she  asked  if  there  was  no  tree  he  did  not  love  at  all. 
He  said  there  was  one,  the  pine,  for  it  sheds  only  a 
fibrous  litter  in  which  nothing  grows.  A  pine  wood  is 
without  birds  or  animals,  the  marten  is  the  only  animal 
one  meets  in  a  pine  wood.  My  grandfather  knew  more 
about  trees  than  any  man  I  ever  knew,  and  he'd  go  on 
telling  about  their  qualities  until  you'd  be  tired.  Alec, 
he'd  say,  you've  been  away;  I'll  talk  to  you  no  more. 
No,  no;  I've  been  listening  ever  so  hard.  Then  tell  me 
the  quality  of  the  alder.  I  remember  it  all  but  can't 
put  words  upon  it;  and  then  I'd  tease  him  to  tell  me 
again  of  the  ruined  fort,  in  which  Marban  and  Luachet 
spent  the  night,  to  be  driven  out  of  it  at  daybreak  by 
the  eagles,  a  nesting  place  it  was  for  them  birds,  and  at 
dawn  they  were  screaming,  frightening  Luachet  so  that 
she  couldn't  do  else  than  to  climb  into  the  limb  of  a 
tree  overhanging  the  fort.  And  Marban  was  driven  to 
follow  her  out  by  the  birds. 

A  fine  story  that  was  to  tell  a  boy,  how,  creeping  out 
on  the  limb  of  the  tree  after  her,  she  cried  to  him  that 
the  branch  was  breaking;  but  she  cried  out  too  late, 
and  down  the  two  of  them  tumbled,  through  a  thicket 
much  like  the  one  in  which  I  spied  the  Murrigan,  coming 
down  in  the  dry  bottom  all  bleeding  and  torn;  they  were 
hardly  able  to  drag  themselves  down  to  the  brook,  where 
they  stripped  themselves  of  what  clothes  was  left  to 
them;  and  a  fair  sight  it  was  to  a  boy's  mind,  the  pair 
picking  each  other  clean,  or  as  clean  as  may  be,  for  after 
a  drop  through  a  blackthorn  thicket  'tis  hard  to  get  the 
last  spikes  out  of  you,  as  hard  as  it  is  to  get  the  last 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      145 

rabbit  out  of  a  ditch.  There's  always  one  left,  and  it 
itching  somewhere  and  in  the  sorest  place  in  your  body, 
you  may  be  sure. 

They  journeyed  on  and  spent  the  next  night  in  a  sheel- 
ing  by  a  lonely  lake,  but  there  was  a  friendly  woman  in 
it,  who  shared  a  couple  of  eels  with  them.  But  begorra 
I'm  forgetting  to  tell  you  about  the  fawn  they  took  charge 
of.  The  wolves  had  had  the  doe,  and  the  fawn  was  dying 
in  the  ditch;  but  the  woman  in  the  sheeling  milked  her 
goat,  and  after  that  drink  of  milk  the  fawn  would  not 
leave  them,  but  kept  springing  after  them,  jumping  over 
the  bushes  in  front  of  them,  delighting  them  with  his 
agility  and  lying  down  by  them  at  night.  I  don't 
rightly  remember  what  became  of  this  fawn;  you'll  have 
to  look  it  out  for  yourself,  sir,  when  you  go  to  Dublin, 
in  one  of  the  old  books  where  my  grandfather  found  it, 
and  you'll  read  in  them  some  of  the  tales  he  used  to  be 
telling  me  of  the  madmen.  Yourself  must  have  known 
not  a  few  of  them  in  your  childhood,  for  not  later  than 
fifty  years  ago  they  were  common  enough,  the  idiots  going 
about  the  country  with  the  beggars,  an  encouragement 
to  the  people  to  put  their  hands  in  their  pockets.  You've 
seen  them,  haven't  you?  And  I  answered  that  I  had. 
Well,  you  can  easily  imagine,  your  honour,  at  the  time  I'm 
relating,  when  there  was  no  madhouse  at  all  in  Ireland, 
but  a  great  deal  of  wilderness,  that  the  mad  would  be 
going  astray  from  their  relatives,  living  upon  soles  and 
holly  berries  and  nuts  from  the  hazel-trees,  and  cress  from 
the  springs,  and  how  they  would  be  finding  but  little 
nourishment  from  these  and  would  be  crying  about  the 
travellers  they  might  come  across  for  bread  and  meat;  and 
it  was  one  of  these  madmen  maybe  that  robbed  the  fawn 
from  Marban  and  Luachet,  who  had  come  to  love  it, 
thinking  of  the  time  when  they  would  be  taking  it  back  to 
France  with  them,  and  keeping  it  till  it  grew  into  a  fine 
stag  with  horns  upon  it,  reminding  them  of  the  eagles  and 


146      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

the  branches  they  had  fallen  through  into  the  dry  bottom, 
for  though  hurt,  Luachet  said  herself,  they  would  be 
thinking  of  this  fawn  and  this  journey  to  the  day  of  their 
death.  It  must  have  been  the  madmen  that  stole  the 
fawn  from  them,  but  I  disremember. 

And  there  was  much  more  my  grandfather  used  to  tell 
of  their  adventures  in  the  wilderness,  how  they  came 
upon  some  women  beating  flax  by  a  river-side,  and  how 
one  laid  down  her  scutch,  saying  she  was  feeling  uneasy, 
as  well  she  might,  for  she  was  going  to  have  a  child;  and 
as  she  stood  watching  the  river  going  by  it  dropped  from 
her  like  an  egg  from  a  hen;  there  was  no  more  about  it. 
But  your  honour  should  have  heard  my  grandfather  tell 
of  all  the  adventures  that  befell  them  in  the  monasteries 
on  their  way  to  the  Shannon,  how — but  it  would  be  weari- 
some to  relate  all  the  odds  and  ends :  how  they  got  across 
most  of  the  road  in  safety  from  Magh  Line  to  Magh  Li, 
from  Magh  Li  to  Ana  Liffey,  and  passed  through  the 
wooded  brow  of  Sliabh  Fuaird  till  they  reached  Rathmor, 
and  over  Magh  Aoi  and  across  bright  Magh  Luirg  until 
they  stepped  across  the  mering  of  Cruachan,  and  how 
they  footed  it  from  Cruachan  to  Sliabh  Cua  and  off 
again  through  Glaisgaile  and  southward  through  stony 
hills  and  curving  paths  until  they  were  within  a  couple  of 
days  of  the  seaport. 

A  big  ship  will  take  us  off  there,  he  said,  for  now 
Luachet  was  sore  in  all  her  bones,  and  weary  of  the  great 
wilderness  they  had  been  through,  and  weary  of  the 
monasteries  they  had  rested  in.  Only  one  more  forest, 
he  said,  lies  between  us  and  the  sea;  and  after  that  the 
world  is  all  fair  valleys  and  pleasant  hills  and  beautiful 
trees  that  we  shall  sleep  under  in  comfort  and  in  love. 
And  so  did  he  comfort  her  and  encourage  her  to  bear  the 
fag  end  of  the  journey.  Now  we're  at  the  skirt  of  the 
last  forest,  he  said.  But  he  didn't  say  that  it  was  in  that 
forest  he  had  heard  wolves  howling  and  snarling  when 


A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      147 

he  came  up  from  Waterford  on  his  way  to  Crith  Gaille, 
and  that  he  might  have  left  his  bones  there  had  it  not 
been  for  the  hounds  that  were  with  him.  His  hope  was 
that  the  wolves  might  be  seeking  their  food  in  some  other 
forest,  so  he  said  nothing  until,  as  the  day  drooped  and 
the  darkness  gathered  into  the  branches,  he  stopped  to 
listen. 

There's  a  howling  near  by,  she  said;  would  that  be  a 
wolf  or  a  dog?  A  wolf  it  is,  he  replied.  It's  on  our 
own  tracks;  and  he's  calling  to  his  fellows,  and  they'll 
be  after  us  soon.  We  must  be  looking  round,  Luachet 
said,  for  a  tree  to  climb  into.  But  this  wood  is  a  pine 
wood,  said  she,  and  there  isn't  a  branch  of  the  branches 
within  our  grip.  Oh,  Marban,  are  we  to  be  eaten  and 
devoured  by  wolves? 


CHAPTER  23. 

SO  Luachet  and  Marban  were  devoured  by  wolves,  Alec? 
I'm  sorry  for  that.  All  the  rest  of  your  story  I  like  very 
much — the  Bregen  monks  sending  to  the  Pyrenean 
monastery  for  hounds,  they  having  themselves  run  out 
of  hounds  owing  to  a  dispute  with  a  king  about  a  piece 
of  land;  that  motive  brings  Ireland  up  before  us — a 
quarrel  over  a  piece  of  land!  Excellent.  And  all  the 
different  episodes  told  faithfully  and  candidly  without 
immodest  insistence.  Excellent !  And  the  last,  Marban's 
vindication,  a  masterpiece!  Your  honour  is  very  kind 
to  speak  to  me  like  that,  but  tell  me  why  you  don't  like 
the  end  of  the  story  as  well  as  the  beginning.  Because, 
Alec,  I  suspect  that  an  ecclesiastic  unleashed  the  wolves. 
It  would  never  do  to  allow  a  pair  of  lovers  to  go  away  to 
the  Pyrenees  to  live  happily  in  broken  vows.  So  you 
think,  your  honour,  that  the  story  did  not  come  down 


148      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

unchanged  from  father  to  son?     I'm  not  saying  it  didn't, 

Alec,  only But  isn't  yourself  the  great  story-teller, 

and  should  be  knowing  better  than  another  what  end  a 
story  should  be  taking?  How  would  you  have  me  alter  the 
story?  Faith  and  troth,  Alec,  in  that  question  you  have 
me  bet,  for  Ireland  was  full  of  wolves  at  that  time,  and 
it  would  be  well-nigh  a  miracle  not  to  be  overtaken  by 
a  pack  of  them  fellows.  .  .  .  Let  me  think.  The  alterna- 
tive is:  babies  in  the  Pyrenees.  Marriage  bells  there 
could  not  be,  unless  Marban  went  to  Rome  and  got 
relief  from  his  vows.  Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it. 
the  end  of  your  story  seems  to  me  to  be  the  right  one. 
A  sad  and  a  cruel  end;  but  it  may  have  fallen  out  just 
as  you  relate  it.  The  only  thing  I  regret  is  that  we 
have  not  all  the  adventures  of  the  lovers  in  the  wilderness 
before  the  end  came. 

Well,  sir,  I've  told  it  the  way  I  got  it  from  the  grand- 
father, just  as  he  used  to  tell  it  when  he  was  in  the 
humour  for  dreaming  over  the  old  Ireland  of  long  ago, 
and  he  had  it  from  his  father  or  from  the  old  writings, 
for  he  was  reading  every  evening  in  the  National  Libraries 
in  Dublin,  leaving  me  after  his  supper  to  go  away  to  the 
library,  or  maybe  taking  me  with  him:  'tis  many  an  hour 
I've  spent  sitting  by  him,  kicking  my  heels  and  wearying 

of  the  place.  Your  grandfather 1  began.     — was  away 

in  the  country  looking  after  the  farm.  You  see,  sir,  the 
grandfather  was  the  second  son,  and  the  elder  brother, 
Patrick,  got  the  farm;  and  when  he  died  without  children 
he  left  it  to  his  wife,  and  when  she  passed  away,  God  be 
merciful  to  her  soul,  the  farm  came  to  the  grandfather, 
who  had  been  a  clerk  in  Dublin  ever  since  he  was  twenty. 
Before  that  he  was  a  clerk  in  Castlebar,  without  knowledge 
of  the  country  at  all.  He  would  have  sold  the  lease, 
thirty-one  years  and  three  lives,  only  that  my  father,  who 
was  then  a  lad  of  seventeen,  said:  let  me  go  down  and 
work  the  farm  for  you.     Which  he  did,  making  a  fair  profit 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      149 

from  the  first.  He  got  married  soon  after  that.  I  was 
born  and  reared  on  the  farm,  but  was  always  a  botch  at 
a  fair,  and,  seeing  how  it  was,  the  father  thought  it  would 
be  better  for  me  to  follow  after  my  grandfather,  who  got 
me  a  job  in  his  office  when  I  was  about  fifteen,  and  I  was 
a  messenger  boy  there  till  I  was  twenty.  Then  that 
grandfather  died,  leaving  me  just  what  took  me  to 
America  in  search  of  a  fortune.  At  that  time  people  used 
to  be  talking  about  America,  and  the  great  things  that 
were  doing  there.  So  you  went  to  America,  Alec?  I 
did,  your  honour,  and  was  at  all  sorts  of  work,  till  the 
sun  caught  me  in  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  I  travelling 
in  the  dry  goods  line  in  Mexico. 

But  so  empty  is  my  mind  of  any  Mexican  memories  that 
my  attention  must  have  been  drawn  from  Alec's  narratives 
by  the  rising  and  falling  lines  of  the  Westport  hills,  all 
beyond  reproach  except  perhaps  the  too  symmetrical 
Croagh  Patrick,  for  the  next  time  I  heard  him  he  was 
saying  that  he  didn't  believe  that  there  was  another  such 
queer  place  as  Ireland  anywhere  in  the  whole  world.  I 
replied:  I  am  with  you,  and  not  less  queer  in  the  past 
than  in  the  present.  Ireland  is  a  poor  place,  he  said, 
compared  with  what  she  once  was,  and  we  talked  politics 
for  a  while.  But  in  no  place,  he  interjected  suddenly, 
has  there  been  such  grand  saints  as  in  Ireland.  Where 
else  would  you  find ? 

All  the  same,  Alec,  in  the  stories  you've  told  me 
they've  shown  themselves  as  weak  as  ourselves  might 
have  been  if  we  had  been  exposed  to  the  same  tempta- 
tations.     Isn't  that  so? 

Alec  seemed  unwilling  to  commit  himself  to  an  opinion 
on  this  point,  and,  after  some  equivocation,  began  to  tell 
me  there  had  always  been  grand  saints  in  Ireland,  men  who 
had  gone  into  temptations,  the  temptation  of  food  and 
drink  and  of  women,  and  had  resisted  them  all.  Did  your 
honour  never  hear  of  Father  Scothine?  he  said  suddenly. 


150      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

I  had  to  confess  that  I  had  not,  and  the  admission, 
although  given  reluctantly,  with  apologies  for  long  years 
of  absence  from  Ireland,  seemed  to  cause  him  some 
disappointment  and  drew  from  him  the  reflection  that 
Irishmen  live  out  of  Ireland  the  best  part  of  their  lives 
usually.  But  Ireland,  I  said,  is  always  with  us  wherever 
we  are,  and  perhaps  Ireland  was  never  nearer  to  you  than 
the  years  you  were  in  Mexico.  True  for  you,  he  inter- 
jected; and  Ireland,  I  continued,  is  always  in  my  mind, 
whether  I  live  in  Paris  or  in  London.  I'm  sure  it  is,  your 
honour,  for  your  father  was  a  good  Irishman,  God  rest  his 
soul. 

And  now  will  you  be  telling  me  the  story  of  Father 
Scothine? 

His  eyes,  of  uncertain  blue,  were  fixed  upon  me,  and 
I  said  to  myself:  he  is  asking  himself  if  he  ought  to  tell 
the  story  of  Father  Scothine  to  a  man  who  has  been  so 
long  out  of  Ireland,  who  is  no  better  than  an  English- 
man; or  is  he,  I  continued,  thinking  the  story  out  afresh, 
shaping  it  to  the  idea  that  holy  Ireland  entertains  of 
herself,  putting  a  good  skin  on  the  lie,  as  himself  would 
word  it;  and  to  interrupt  him  in  the  fabrication  of  a 
homily,  if  he  were  engaged  on  one,  I  asked  him  suddenly 
if  he  could  tell  me  what  kind  of  man  Father  Scothine 
was.  A  story,  I  said,  gains  in  interest  if  we  can  see  the 
characters  plainly;  one  should  have  them  in  one's  mind 
all  the  time  whilst  listening  to  a  story. 


CHAPTER  24. 

I'VE  always  heard  my  grandfather  say,  he  answered,  that 
Father  Scothine  was  the  strongest  man  in  the  County 
Mayo  in  his  young  days,  great  at  hurling  and  throwing 
the  stone  and  in  all  the  sports;  six  feet  and  some  inches, 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      151 

he  was,  with  a  head  on  him  as  round  as  the  balls  that  top 
the  pillars  before  a  landlord's  gateway.  Big  hands,  long 
feet  and  the  eyes  of  them  that  fear  hell,  for  though  he 
was  the  holiest  man  in  or  out  of  Ireland,  Sco thine  lived 
in  fear  of  hell  always,  and  it  was  this  fear  sent  him  out 
of  his  village,  and  away  from  his  chapel,  into  the  wilder- 
ness. 

And  did  he  learn  in  the  wilderness,  I  asked  Alec,  that 
he  was  not  to  go  to  hell,  and  was  it  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  saved  brought  him  back  to  his  village? 

I'm  not  able  to  answer  that  question,  sir,  Alec  answered. 
I  can  only  tell  you  the  story  the  way  I  got  it  from  the 
grandfather,  and  from  what  he  said  I  think  Scothine 
didn't  bother  himself  a  lot  about  miracles  or  visions,  but 
that  he  was  troubled  with  a  great  fear  of  hell  that  now 
and  again  slackened  and  left  him  in  peace  and  at  other 
times  gripped  him  entirely  and  sent  him  climbing  the 
trees  for  a  lodging  out  of  the  way  of  the  wolves.  That 
was  how  he  used  to  live  out  in  the  crags  and  up  in  the 
trees  when  the  fear  took  hold  of  him,  along  with  the 
thought  that  he  was  losing  his  soul  in  village  idleness, 
doing  nothing  but  saying  a  mass  now  and  again  when 
the  people  required  it.  But  when  the  fear  wasn't  on 
him  he  was  as  soft  and  quiet  and  sensible  a  man  as  you 
could  meet  in  a  long  day's  walk.  A  thick,  heavy  lump 
of  a  lad,  taking  things  easy  and  saying  his  mass  like 
another  priest  on  Sunday.  The  only  difference  between 
him  and  the  other  priest  was  that  it  was  rare  he  missed 
saying  Mass  on  weekdays.  His  eating  and  drinking,  it's 
true,  was  never  the  same  as  other  men's,  for  when  he  was 
in  the  village  he  lived  very  much  as  he  did  in  the  wilder- 
ness, his  diet  being  seldom  more  than  cress,  which 
he  would  gather  himself  from  the  spring,  and  a  few 
acorns  from  the  oaks  in  autumn  and  a  fistful  of  hazel 
nuts.  When  there  were  no  more  of  these  he  lived  on 
rye  bread,  and  didn't  touch  the  meat  except  on  Christmas 


152      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

Day.  That  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  leg  of  mutton.  He 
ate  one,  and  it  tormented  his  conscience  the  way  he 
took  the  pledge  never  to  chew  meat  again,  but  not 
wishing  to  make  Christmas  Day  like  any  other  day,  he 
would  let  you  give  him  a  trout  from  the  river  on  Christmas 
Day  or  an  eel  out  of  a  bog  hole.  The  rest  of  the  year 
he  went  meatless,  lowering  his  health  until  he  got 
sick,  and  it  being  dinned  into  his  ears  that  he  was 
killing  himself,  which  no  Christian  is  permitted  to  do, 
he  let  them  give  him  a  pot  of  broth.  The  same  broth 
did  him  a  power  of  good,  and  he  got  back  the  health 
in  a  few  days,  but  no  sooner  was  he  on  his  legs  again 
than  his  conscience  began  to  worry  him  about  the  broth, 
and  once  more  the  thought  caught  hold  of  him  that  he 
must  be  hiding  to  save  the  soul  he  would  be  losing 
if  he  stayed  another  day  in  the  village.  Off  he  went 
to  hide  in  a  place  called  Glenn  o'  Goshleen.  You  may 
have  seen  it,  sir,  for  it  was  part  of  your  father's  prop- 
erty; it  was  sold  in  the  famine  years;  a  beautiful  place 
that  was  in  Father  Scothine's  time,  with  woods  all 
over  the  Partry  hills,  and  in  these  woods  he  hid  himself; 
and  there  he  lived  for  months,  dodging  away  from  every- 
body, afraid  they  might  bring  him  things  to  eat,  or  put 
a  roof  over  his  head,  which  they  might  have  done  too 
if  they  could  have  found  him,  for  he  was  well  thought  of. 
But  being  as  artful  as  a  pet  fox,  he  was  able  to  keep  his 
distance,  and  when  people  began  to  think  he  was  dead  in 
the  woods,  and  to  forget  him,  he  was  making  his  way 
round  the  bend  of  the  lake  across  the  country,  never 
stopping  till  he  came  to  the  naked  crags  above  the  salt 
water,  a  place  that  is  now  known  as  Oldhead,  but  what 
they  called  it  in  the  time  gone  by  I  disremember.  He 
lived  there  on  gulls'  eggs  and  the  mussels  and  winkles  that 
he  picked  up  on  the  shore,  lying  out  every  night  on  the 
naked  crags,  doing  penance  for  his  sins.  What  they  were, 
sir,  I  cannot  tell  you :  vapours  of  the  brain,  I'd  say,  and  no 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      153 

more  than  that.  One  day  the  vapours  left  him,  and  he 
went  back  to  his  parish  and  did  his  share  of  shriving  and 
saying  Mass'  and  reading  the  gospels,  as  quiet  a  man  as 
you'd  find  in  the  whole  of  Ireland,  and  everybody  thinking 
the  old  madness  had  left  him.  He  was  the  same  mind 
himself,  if  he  thought  about  it  at  all.  All  we  know  is 
that  his  mother  came  to  see  him,  and  she  said :  everything 
must  seem  to  you  like  a  dream.  And  he  said :  like  a  dream 
it  is,  maybe,  but  our  dreams  are  as  much  a  part  of  ourselves 
as  our  waking  moments.  And  a  solemn  look  came  into  his 
face,  and  his  big  eyes  rolled  in  their  sockets.  It  would 
be  better,  mother,  said  he,  according  to  the  talk  that's 
going,  not  to  be  judging  anything,  but  to  be  always  doing 
something  and  mortifying  this  flesh,  which  will  drag  souls 
down  into  hell  if  we  are  not  subduing  it  day  in  and  day  out. 
You  see,  sir,  his  mind  was  the  same  as  it  always  had  been, 
only  hell  wasn't  quite  so  plain  to  him  as  it  was  the  time 
he  ran  off  to  Glenn  o'  Goshleen  or  got  among  the  crags 
at  Oldhead.  He  was  always  a  bit  afraid  that  he  was 
doing  wrong,  and  it  was  at  this  time  of  quiet,  the  greatest 
he  ever  knew  in  his  life,  that  a  vision  came  to  him,  and 
he  sitting  underneath  an  oak-tree  by  the  river-bank, 
watching  the  water  go  by.  A  pleasant  place  the  same 
place  is  now,  for  that  matter.  The  same  oak  may  be 
standing  yet,  for  I've  heard  tell  that  an  oak  will  live  a 
thousand  years.  A  willow  is  not  so  lasting  a  tree,  but 
belike  them  that  are  now  standing  are  from  the  seed  of 
those  that  were  dropping  to  the  river  in  Scothine's  day. 
That  was  his  favourite  place  for  hatching  out  his  thoughts, 
and  seeing  him  sitting  there  so  much  at  home  among 
the  birds,  the  word  went  that  he  had  learnt  the  talk 
of  the  birds  in  Glenn  o'  Goshleen,  which  is  a  strange 
story  enough,  but  not  stranger  than  that  a  man  should 
build  himself  a  nest  in  the  fork  of  a  tree,  and  that  the 
pigeons  in  the  branch  above  him  should  come  and  go 
and  feed  their  chicks  without  minding  him.     As  much 


154      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

as  the  birds  he  loved  the  beasts — the  foxes  and  the 
badgers — and  they  came  to  him  out  of  their  holes,  and 
the  gulls  came  to  him  from  the  sea;  and  there  were 
ducks  and  geese  and  wild  swans  on  the  river,  and  he  would 
listen  to  them  chattering  away  at  each  other  when  the 
south  wind  blew.  And  there  were  otters  in  the  stream, 
and  he  used  to  be  sorry  when  the  otter  slid  down  into  the 
water  and  came  up  with  a  fish  in  his  mouth,  but  he  never 
interfered  with  them.  I  take  the  water-grass  and  he 
takes  the  fish,  he  would  say.  But  he  liked  the  badgers 
that  lived  up  in  the  woods  better  than  the  otters,  for 
the  badgers  ate  the  roots  and  hurt  no  one.  You  see  the 
sort  of  man  he  was,  a  gentle  and  happy  lad,  fearing  his 
own  kind  more  than  he  feared  the  wolves  and  the  bears, 
for  in  Scothine's  days  bears  and  wolves  were  as  plentiful 
as  weasels  are  nowadays,  and  martens  were  hopping  from 
branch  to  branch  in  the  pine-trees,  and  they  after  the 
birds.  He  was  unhappy  when  he  found  the  wings  and 
the  breast  feathers  of  a  wood-pigeon,  and  would  look  at 
them  sadly,  saying:  was  it  a  marten  that  did  the  deed, 
or  was  it  a  hawk?  As  for  the  robins,  they  never  left 
him  alone;  the  blackbirds  and  the  thrushes  knew  him 
and  trusted  him,  the  way  that  they  would  take  bread  out 
of  his  hand  when  he  had  any  to  give,  which  was  often 
enough,  for  he  used  to  go  without  the  bit  himself  so  that 
he  might  have  something  for  the  shuler  and  the  wandering 
rogues,  and  he'd  only  keep  for  his  own  jaw  a  few  acorns 
that  he'd  pick  up;  a  poor  diet,  and  many's  the  belly-ache 
he  got  on  the  head  of  it,  I'd  say.  But  he  didn't  mind, 
claiming  that  God  knew  better  what  was  good  for  him 
than  he  did  himself.  It  was  on  one  of  the  fast  days, 
while  sitting  under  the  oak,  with  his  eyes  on  the  river, 
and  he  not  seeing  it  at  all,  for  his  thoughts  were  away 
in  the  desert  whither  Jesus,  our  Lord,  had  gone  to  be 
alone,  and  where  he  met  the  devil,  who  told  him  he'd 
give  him  all  the  kingdom  of  earth  if  he'd  fall  down  and 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      155 

adore  him,  a  great  lie,  your  honour,  for  the  devil  hadn't 
got  the  kingdom  of  earth  to  give  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
who  is  himself  possessed  of  all  that  is  in  the  heaven 
above  and  in  the  earth  beneath  and  in  the  waters  under 
the  earth.  I  mayn't  have  the  devil's  own  exact  words,  your 
honour,  but  I'm  thinking  the  gist  of  it  was  that  if  our 
blessed  Lord  would  bow  down  and  worship  him  he  could 
have  whatever  he  liked  in  this  world;  perhaps  no  men- 
tion was  made  of  heaven  at  the  time.  Scothine  was 
thinking  the  devil  must  have  been  a  bit  artless  that 
time,  and  should  have  known  that  Jesus  would  answer 
him:  thou  must  not  tempt  the  Lord  thy  God,  the  way 
he  did  answer  him.  All  the  same,  said  Scothine  to 
himself,  it  must  have  been  a  great  temptation  to  the 
Lord  Jesus  not  to  turn  the  stones  into  bread,  and  he 
doing  a  fast  for  forty  days  and  forty  nights,  and  hungry 
enough,  I'll  go  bail,  at  the  end  of  it,  but  he  had  promised 
his  Father  that  the  spirit  should  not  yield  to  the  flesh, 
and  he  wouldn't  go  back  on  that,  and  his  Father  had 
promised  to  reward  him  by  raising  him  from  the  dead 
after  three  days'  burial. 

It  was  while  thinking  on  this  temptation  that  Scothine 
came  to  say  to  himself:  I  wish  God  would  send  the 
devil  to  tempt  me,  and  I  sitting  here,  so  that  I  would 
make  sure  of  resisting  the  temptation,  and  getting  a  high 
place  in  glory  hereafter  for  my  own  self.  Let  the  devil 
appear,  he  said,  and  I'll  manage  somehow  to  give  him  a  fall. 

It  was  in  the  shape  of  a  black  man  with  goat's  feet  and 
a  scut  of  a  tail  that  Scothine  expected  to  see  the  devil, 
but  the  devil  suits  his  shape  to  the  job  he's  on,  and  this 
time  he  took  the  shape  of  a  beautiful  woman,  come  up 
through  the  willow-trees  from  the  river.  She  stood,  in 
his  vision,  smiling,  and  beckoning  him  to  follow  her  into 
the  woods.  Maybe  his  mind  was  wandering,  and  maybe 
he  was  upset  by  the  hunger,  but  he  got  on  his  feet  and 
took  after  her  up  the  path.     He  hadn't  gone  far  before 


156      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

she  disappeared  into  the  willows,  and  he  heard  a  mocking 
laugh  that  gave  him  the  fright  of  his  life,  and  set  him 
wondering  if  God  had  answered  his  prayer  and  sent  the 
devil  to  him  indeed.  He  wasn't  sure  either  that  he  had 
rightly  resisted  the  devil,  for  hadn't  he  looked  after  the 
vision  eagerly,  and  the  one  that  looks  after  a  woman  hath 
committed  adultery  with  her  in  his  heart;  the  same  being 
what  our  Lord  said,  or  nigh  to  it.  Scothine  would  have  the 
words  off  better  than  I.  He  went  home  with  his  heart 
going  pit-a-pat,  like  a  duck's  foot  in  mud,  from  the  fright 
he  got,  and  he  thinking  and  asking  himself  whether  he 
ought  to  go  back  to  the  crag  of  the  gulls  and  live  there 
for  a  year  on  raw  eggs  or  the  leavings  of  the  fish  that  the 
birds  didn't  want,  guts  and  the  like;  or  if  he  ought  to  go 
to  Glenn  o'  Goshleen  and  eat  water-grass  and  oak  apples, 
and  sleep  up  in  a  tree  at  the  heel  of  the  day  out  of  harm's 
way  of  the  wolves,  the  prowlers.  The  morrow  would 
settle  all  that,  said  he,  but  something  ought  surely  to  be 
done  at  once  in  the  way  of  penance  and  mortification. 
He  could  not  think  of  a  thing  except  to  strip  himself  to 
the  buff  and,  going  to  his  cupboard,  he  took  out  the 
scourge;  but  he  could  not  do  more,  it  seemed,  than  to 
tickle  himself  with  the  lash,  and  the  man  that  he  used  to 
pay  wages  to  beat  him  beforetimes,  until  the  blood  would 
run  down  his  hams  and  his  shanks,  had  gone  back  with 
himself  to  his  own  parts.  Scothine  had  no  mind,  and  no 
time,  to  go  looking  for  another  man  to  lay  on  with  the 
scourge,  he  was  that  worried  by  the  persecution  going  on 
in  his  head,  one  time  his  thoughts  saying  that  it  wasn't 
water-grass  and  oak-falls,  nor  prayers  at  all  hours  of  the 
night  and  day,  nor  scourgings  and  weltings  by  his  own 
hand  or  the  hand  of  another  that  he  wanted,  but  a  big 
temptation  that  he  might  be  standing  out  against,  and  so 
be  giving  great  pleasure  to  God  Almighty.  And  the 
hunger  of  this  great  temptation  became  stronger  day  after 
day,  till  the  prayer  was  never  off  his  lips  that  God  would 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      157 

send  the  devil  back  to  him.  Night  and  morning  he  would 
cry  to  God  in  his  prayers :  give  me  my  chance  now.  Give 
me  another  chance.  And  he  spent  a  deal  of  time  thinking 
of  the  words  he  would  utter  out  against  the  devil,  and  he 
didn't  take  as  much  as  a  walk  without  a  bottle  of  holy 
water  to  dash  in  the  devil's  face,  or  without  a  rosary  to 
cast  over  him  if  he  came  near  enough.  Scothine  had  a 
plan  how  he  would  lure  the  devil  near  till  he  could  lasso 
him  with  the  rosary,  like  they  lasso  and  catch  the  wild 
cattle  in  Mexico.  Won't  he  give  a  kick  and  a  lep  when 
he  feels  it  drooping  over  his  ears,  he  kept  saying  to  him- 
self. For  the  rosary  he  had  brought  out  with  him  had  been 
blessed  by  the  Pope  of  Rome,  and  while  he  was  wriggling 
out  of  it  Scothine  thought  that  he'd  spit  in  his  face  and 
jeer  at  him,  and  call  him  names. 

This  prank  that  he  was  going  to  play  on  the  devil  made 
him  as  happy  as  a  lark,  until  at  last  he  began  to  say  to 
himself:  the  year  wastes  after  July,  and  I  wish  God 
would  give  me  my  chance  before  the  year  is  out.  He 
hadn't  forgotten  that  the  devil  came  to  him  looking  like  a 
woman ;  and  he  was  real  vexed  to  think  he  had  gone  after 
her,  for  he  wasn't  sure  by  any  means  that  he  had  the 
rosary  in  mind  at  the  time.  It  was  just  curiosity,  that's 
what  it  was,  he  muttered  to  himself,  on  his  way  to  his 
favourite  seat  under  the  oak.  Still,  and  all  the  same  he 
was  bothered  and  vexed,  for  his  thoughts  were  like  a  swarm 
of  bees  in  his  head  the  way  he  couldn't  tell  himself  what 
he  was  thinking  about,  one  thought  flying  away  and 
another  one  coming  into  his  head  at  the  same  moment, 
so  that  there  was  never  such  a  going  and  a  coming  in 
this  world  before.  At  one  moment  it  was  the  great 
reward  he  would  be  gaining  in  heaven,  and  the  minute 
after  it  was  the  great  punishment  he  would  be  getting  in 
purgatory,  or  singeing  and  grizzling  on  the  hob  of  hell, 
for  mind  you,  Scothine  was  not  sure  at  all  that  if  the 
devil  had  come  along  with  horns  and  hooves,  and  a  nose 


158      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

like  a  chimney,  all  smoke  and  smuts,  and  his  tail  hanging 
out,  that  he  would  have  been  so  anxious  to  get  up  and 
go  after  him  the  way  he  went  after  the  woman.  I  might 
have  let  my  liver  drop  out  of  me  with  the  fright,  he  said 
to  himself,  and  I  wasn't  frightened  a  bit.  How  was  that 
now?  Why  was  it,  said  he,  that  I  stood  all  up  and  down 
like  a  poplar-tree  to  look  at  a  woman  with  her  clothes 
off?  He  used  to  keep  his  eyes  sideways  and  baw-ways 
when  he  was  talking  to  a  woman,  the  way  he  wouldn't 
see  her,  even  if  it  was  his  own  mother.  .  .  .  Yet  the 
memory  of  this  woman's  larky  eye,  and  the  two  breasts 
lifting  out  of  her,  could  not  be  rooted  out  of  his  mind 
anyhow,  nor  the  memory  of  her  backside,  that  was  like 
a  great  white  mushroom,  as  she  vanished  away  through 
the  willows.  But  the  breasts  were  better  in  his  memory 
than  all  the  rest  of  her,  and  maybe  it's  the  breasts  is  the 
part  a  man  has  to  struggle  against  if  he  wants  to  get  the 
old  soul  safe  for  an  eternity  of  happiness:  God  above  the 
lot;  Jesus  on  the  right-hand  side,  his  blessed  mother  on 
the  left,  and  all  the  angels  parading  around,  and  they 
having  the  great  time. 

While  he  was  thinking  these  things  he  heard  a  splash 
in  the  water,  and  there  he  saw  a  girl  with  a  pair  of  the 
finest  tits  a  man  could  wish  to  be  looking  at.  Scothine, 
thinking  the  devil  had  come  back  to  him,  felt  in  his  girdle 
for  the  holy  water  and  the  rosary,  which  was  to  make  the 
devil  get  into  his  own  shape.  He  got  hold  of  both  these 
weapons  against  the  Evil  One,  and  he  stole  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  river  and  made  ready.  Faith  and  troth,  said 
he,  that's  not  the  devil,  bad  luck  to  it,  but  it's  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  female  that  lives  in  the  cottage  at  the 
bend  of  the  river.  Up  he  lepped  again  on  the  bank  and 
away  with  him  to  the  ford,  stepping  gingerly  over  the 
stones,  as  a  man  must  on  his  way  to  salvation,  fearing  he 
would  be  drowned  before  he  was  saved.  Now,  says  he, 
to  the  woman  who  was  feeding  her  pigs,  leave  feeding 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      159 

the  pigs,  let  the  pigs  be,  for  I've  come  to  talk  to  you 
about  a  thing  that's  more  important  than  pigs.  Sure,  I 
can  be  listening  to  you  while  I'm  throwing  the  food  to 
the  animals,  and  they  ready  to  eat  their  own  ourbeens  off 
with  the  hunger,  she  said.  Well,  said  Scothine,  for  there 
was  nothing  in  his  head  but  the  idea  of  how  to  get  a  soft 
seat  in  heaven,  a  red  and  golden  chair,  with  a  doeskin 
pad  filled  with  goose  feathers:  is  there  another  red- 
headed girl  in  the  parish  beyond  your  own  daughter? 
There  is  not,  she  answered,  not  one  with  a  head  of  hair 
like  that  head.  She's  in  the  river,  said  Scothine.  She 
is  so,  said  the  woman,  since  the  dawn  of  day,  leaving  me 
to  do  the  work;  she  and  her  sister,  as  big  an  idler  as  her- 
self, the  pair  of  straps;  up  and  down,  and  in  and  out  of 
the  same  river  they  do  be  going,  splashing  about  all  the 
summer-time  as  if  it  was  ducks  they  was,  and  not  chris- 
tian females.  It's  a  great  loss  to  me,  the  bathing.  Did  they 
go  and  interrupt  your  Reverence,  and  they  splashing,  for 
if  that's  what  you've  come  about,  I'll  give  them  a  leather- 
ing when  they  come  home,  and  it  won't  happen  the  second 
time.  It  isn't  that,  Scothine  answered,  that  I've  come 
to  talk  to  you  about,  but  to  tell  you  this,  that  your  daugh- 
ter has  a  pair  of  breasts  on  her  would  raise  great  tempta- 
tion in  a  man.  That's  the  truth  itself,  the  woman  said; 
they're  the  fullest  I've  ever  known  on  a  girl  of  her  age,  as 
I'm  always  telling  the  clergy  that  comes  here  seeking  a 
temptation.  Is  that  the  way  it  is?  said  Scothine.  There's 
them  have  been  after  her  before  me.  But  which  of  them 
has  that  right  to  lie  with  her  as  I  have  earned  myself  by 
such  terrible  fastings  and  prayers  in  more  woods  and 
wildernesses  than  you  could  reckon  on  your  fingers  and 
toes?  Who  has  a  better  right?  Will  you  tell  me  that 
now?  That  much  I'll  say  for  myself,  so  you  may  send 
her  to  me,  and  to  no  one  else.  Why  should  I  send 
her  to  you,  more  than  to  another?  Distracted  I  am  and 
moidhered  with  people  asking  for  the  loan  of  my  daughters 


160      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

to  be  a  temptation  to  the  flesh,  and  it  all  comes  from  the 
sporting  and  tumbling  they  do  be  going  on  with  in  the 
river.  I'll  put  a  stop  to  it.  I  will  so.  They  won't  see 
water  again  as  long  as  they  live;  they  will  not.  My  good 
woman,  Scothine  answered,  don't  be  forgetting  that  it  was 
God  put  the  breasts  on  the  women.  Are  you  telling  me 
that?  said  she.  And  what  do  you  think  he  planted  them 
there  for?  For  she  was  one  of  them  who  wasn't  backward 
in  coming  forward,  even  to  the  priests.     For  the  suckling 

of  babes,  I  always  thought,  but  to  listen  to  yourself 

It  was  for  that  surely,  Scothine  interrupted,  and  for  more 
than  that;  for,  let  you  deny  it  if  you  dare,  that  God  in  his 
wisdom  knew  about  the  temptation  they  might  be  before 
the  children  came,  and  what  I've  come  for  is  to  ask  you 
to  let  me  have  the  loan  of  your  daughter  to  lie  with  me, 
for,  from  the  peep  that  I  had  through  the  bushes,  her 
breasts  are  just  the  ones  that  might  awaken  the  devil  in 
me,  if  there's  any  devil  left  in  me. 

Woman  is  the  temptation  of  the  temptations,  so  I've 
heard,  not  from  knowledge,  mind  you,  having  been  busy 
till  now  with  the  conquest  of  my  belly;  all  temptations 
rise  out  of  the  belly,  the  woman  as  well  as  the  victual 
and  the  drink.  The  pleasure  of  food  and  drink  I've 
passed  and  done  with,  for  I  live  on  water-grass  from  the 
spring  and  oak  balls  from  the  oaks,  as  well  as  you  do 
yourself  with  the  meat  and  the  mead.  Plain  water  I 
drink  without  as  much  as  a  wish  rising  in  me  for  a  slug 
of  ale.  Nor  are  the  scourgings  and  weltings  I  give 
myself  any  use;  my  flesh  doesn't  heed  them,  and  the  man 
who  would  scourge  yells  out  of  me  one  time  has  left  the 
country;  gone  he  is,  and  here  am  I  without  a  temptation 
to  my  name  unless  you  let  your  daughter  lie  with  me; 
you  won't  get  out  of  it  yourself,  my  good  woman,  unless 
you  send  her  to  me,  mind  you  that;  for  it  is  on  me  you've 
got  to  reckon  to  be  readying  your  place  in  heaven  for 
you.     And,  said  he,  if  I  get  lazy  and  lob  around  with 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      161 

my  bum  on  a  warm  stone,  I'll  be  in  purgatory  for  my 
sins  after  you  are  dead  yourself,  and  what's  going  to 
intercede  for  you  or  to  bother  their  brains  about  you  at 
all.  Get  me  to  heaven  as  quick  as  it  can  be  managed, 
or  maybe  you'll  howl  in  hell  like  a  dog  with  hot  water 
on  his  tail. 

You're  a  great  saint,  Father  Scothine,  said  the  woman; 
you  are  so,  and  high  enough  will  you  be  perched  up  in 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  without  making  a  step-ladder  of 
my  daughter's  two  breasts.  'Tis  on  my  shoulders  you 
and  your  daughters  will  be  hoisted  up,  that's  the  way  it 
is,  each  one  helping  the  other  and  the  priests  helping 
the  most.  You're  wiser,  I'm  thinking,  about  the  way  to 
get  a  crown  on  your  head  than  I  could  be,  that  have 
never  known  anything  but  a  handerchief  tied  under 
my  chin,  but  I'll  not  be  giving  my  daughter  to  lie  with 
you.  I  will  not;  and  there  I  leave  it.  God  knows 
what  might  happen  to  her  in  a  sudden  weakness  such 
as  we're  all  liable  to,  and  it  in  the  blood.  Now,  my  good 
woman,  I'm  not  sure  if  you're  thinking  about  me  or  about 
your  daughter.  I  think  the  thoughts  are  in  my  own  head, 
and  this  I  say,  Father  Scothine,  that  the  sin  is  the  same 
to  the  one  that  is  atop  as  to  the  one  that  is  below.  You 
might  be  in  the  right  of  it,  Scothine  answered  humbly, 
for  he  was  one  of  those  men  who  think  the  next  one 
to  him  is  wiser  than  himself,  and  to  escape  from  the 
persecution  of  his  thoughts,  which  were  about  him  again 
like  a  swarm  of  bees,  he  turned  away.  Don't  be  in  that 
much  of  a  hurry,  the  woman  cried  after  him.  My  curse 
on  the  bathing  in  the  river,  but  I'll  give  you  your  chance 
the  way  we'll  all  get  to  heaven.  Wouldn't  it  do  you 
as  well  to  lie  between  my  two  daughters?  They  would 
be  keeping  each  other  company  in  the  temptations  and 
helping  each  other  to  make  it  hot  for  you,  and  to  keep 
out  of  it  themselves.  Ah,  said  Scothine,  you're  cutting 
my  danger  in  two  halves,  and  I  the  sort  that  likes  to 


162      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

feel  the  bones  and  the  brunt  of  the  business,  but  since 
it  cannot  be,  send  me  the  pair  of  them  to-night,  and  I'll 
have  them  again  on  Saturday  week,  and  every  Saturday 
from  this  on,  if  I  feel  the  strength  in  me  to  stand  temp- 
tation. Not  a  sparrow  is  hatched  in  the  nest  but  the 
Lord  provides  food  for  it,  and  he  will  provide  me  with 
strength  once  a  week  to  resist  and  hold  out  and  get 
over  the  temptation.  Send  the  pair  of  them  to  me 
at  the  close  of  day.  Well,  said  the  woman,  when  the 
priest  was  out  of  sight,  heaven  must  be  a  great  place, 
since  a  man  has  to  go  through  all  the  fastings  and  prayers 
that  Father  Sco thine  has  been  through,  and  now  he's 
putting  his  head  into  a  noose. 

I  must  be  telling  Dare  and  Lalloc  not  to  pull  that 
noose  too  tight,  or  by  this  and  by  that,  with  breasts 
like  Dare's  even  him  that  feeds  upon  water-grass  and 
nuts,  like  a  pet  lamb,  might  be  learning  the  tricks  of 
a  buck  goat,  and  who  knows  that  my  girl  might  not 
fall  in  with  him  just  at  the  right  time,  and  then  there 
would  be  the  devil  to  pay  surely.  But  whichever  way 
we  look,  danger  there  is,  and  the  saint  must  have  his 
temptations;  he  must  indeed;  he  refused  a  shoulder 
of  kid  last  week;  he'd  refuse  anything,  that  man  would. 

As  soon  as  her  girls  came  up  from  their  dipping  she  in- 
structed them:  they  were  to  lie  with  the  saint  on  Saturday 
night  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  and  as  we  are  walking  to 
Mass,  says  she,  you'll  be  telling  me  what  happened  to  you, 
without  forgetting  anything,  or  I'll  break  both  your  backs. 
Without  forgetting  as  much  as  a  nod  or  a  wink,  they 
answered  her,  and  the  story  they  told  of  the  great  fight 
the  saint  put  up  against  temptation  was  so  wonderful  that 
she  sent  them  up  every  Saturday  night  to  him.  And  in  this 
way  Scothine  rose  every  Sunday  morning  from  his  bed 
greater  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord  than  the  night  before. 

But  you  know,  sir,  there  are  bad  tongues  wagging 
everywhere,  and  when  the  news  of  the  saint's  martyr- 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      163 

dom,  and  of  miracles  performed  by  him  and  the  girls 
themselves,  who  came  in  to  him  with  red  coals  in  their 
bibs,  the  coals  not  scorching  them  at  all,  reached  the 
Bishop,  he  began  to  scratch  his  head  and  to  think  he 
must  try  and  put  a  stop  to  the  talking.  He  sent  his 
chaplain,  one  Brenainn. 

Can  you  tell  me,  Alec,  what  sort  of  man  the  chaplain 
was?  I'd  like  to  have  the  two  priests  before  my  eyes. 
Sure  I  can,  Alec  answered  blithely.  He  was  a  spongy 
little  man,  with  eyes  like  sloes,  and  great  red  lips  that  he 
kept  licking  with  a  big  coarse  tongue  all  the  while.  You 
could  hear  him  licking,  for  he  licked  with  a  click,  setting 
Scothine  against  him  at  first.  But  he  was  a  friendly 
fellow,  and  the  friendliness  in  his  heart  couldn't  be  held 
back.  And  he  was  a  merry  chap  too,  so  these  qualities 
made  up  for  the  looks  which  were  against  him,  and  it 
wasn't  long  before  Scothine  began  to  feel  that  life  was 
lying  easier  upon  him.  The  sun  was  shining  into  the 
room,  and  the  sweet  air,  going  and  coming  in  and  out  of 
the  half-door  and  Brenainn  was  telling  so  pleasantly  that 
the  Bishop  didn't  believe  the  report,  but  would  like  to 
have  it  from  Scothine  direct  that  he  didn't  lie  every 
night  between  two  girls  with  pointed  breasts. 

Not  every  night  surely,  for  the  man  isn't  alive  in 
Ireland  that  could  be  without  his  night's  rest  all  through 
the  week,  and  he  in  pain,  in  restlessness,  and  in  such  dis- 
comfort that  I  cannot  put  words  on  it,  Brenainn.  It  is 
only  the  Mass  I  say  on  Sunday  gives  me  the  courage  to 
bear  up  at  all.  So  that  is  the  story  I'm  to  carry  home  to 
the  Bishop?  Brenainn  said.  That's  the  tale,  and  the  story, 
and  the  truth.  The  truth  is  sometimes  hard  to  believe, 
Brenainn  answered;  but,  my  dear  Scothine,  I  do  not  doubt 
a  word  of  it,  and  getting  it  from  yourself,  but  those  that 

get  it  from  me What  will  they  be  saying?  Scothine 

answered.  But  what  matters  it  what  they  will  be  saying 
if  I'm  winning  a  place  in  heaven  for  myself?     And  let  you 


164      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

be  doing  the  same,  Brenainn,  this  night  of  all  nights,  and 
God  giving  you  the  chance.  Not  a  sparrow  falls  without 
his  will,  well  you  know  it.  It  was  for  this  you  were  sent 
here,  to  lie  between  two  girls  with  pointed  breasts.  Why 
not,  he  continued,  if  thereby  you  please  God?  Aren't 
we  here  for  that?  Brenainn  turned  his  eyes  from 
Scothine.  You're  not  saying  anything,  Scothine  said. 
And  Brenainn,  who  did  not  wish  to  be  behindhand,  or  to 
show  himself  a  coward  before  Scothine,  replied:  well, 
since  you  say  there  are  two,  I'll  try  it,  and  with  the  help 
of  God  I'll  come  out  on  the  right  side  of  the  bed.  Brave 
words  are  these,  Scothine  answered,  but  mind  you, 
Brenainn,  her  breasts  are  round  and  white,  for  all  the 
world  like  little  mushrooms  come  up  in  the  night  at 
the  ring  of  day,  and  her  backside  like  a  big  one;  and 
he  kept  on  telling  of  her  temptations,  not  to  make  him- 
self out  a  great  man  for  having  overcome  them  but 
to  frighten  Brenainn,  for  though  Scothine  was  the 
gentlest  of  human  beings  there  was  malice  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  box,  and  he  enjoyed  the  fear  that  he  was 
reading  all  the  time  on  Brenainn's  face  while  he 
kept  the  talk  going,  asking  Brenainn  if  there  was  any 
word  in  his  parish  about  Brian  Boru,  who  had  come  out  of 
the  forest  with  a  remnant  of  his  followers  to  redeem 
Ireland  from  the  Danes.  But  it  doesn't  much  matter  to 
the  story  I'm  telling  what  their  talk  was  about.  As  likely 
as  not  it  was  stray  talk,  that  people  drop  into  when  they 
have  something  else  on  their  minds,  and  it  went  on  until 
each  felt  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  bear  it  much  longer. 

So  it  was  a  relief  to  both  when  the  girls  poked  their 
heads  through  the  half -door.  But  when  they  saw  Father 
Brenainn  up  went  their  eyebrows,  and  round  they  popped, 
and  away  with  themselves.  Scothine  called  after  them, 
but  they  were  half-way  across  the  field,  and  he  had  to 
pick  up  his  cassock  and  go  after  them.  You  would  run 
away,  would  you?     You  would  leave  a  holy  man  without 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      165 

his  temptation,  you  would  do  that?  he  was  saying,  as  he 
brought  them  in.  Sure  we  didn't  know,  Father,  the  girls 
cried  out;  and  let  go  our  ears,  or  we'll  never  give  you  a 
tempt  again.  Now  sit  you  down,  will  you,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  news  will  surprise  the  pair  of  you.  How  would  you 
like  to  hear  that  the  talk  going  round  is  that  the  three  of 
us  are  living  together  in  sin?  Would  they  say  the  like? 
the  girls  yelped  out  together.  Aren't  there  the  wicked 
people  to  say  the  like  of  that,  and  we  giving  up  all  fun 
and  diversion  and  breaking  our  backs  to  get  here  every 
Saturday  night,  and  getting  pains  in  our  heads  trying  to 
torment  yourself  the  way  God  may  be  pleased,  and  you 
holding  yourself  in?  It's  no  work  for  a  girl,  or  a  pair  of 
girls;  it  is  not,  and  God  knows  it.  That  sounds  like  the 
truth,  don't  it?  Scothine  asked  Brenainn.  It  does  so, 
said  Brenainn.  That  has  the  ring.  I'm  satisfied  with 
that.  And  my  little  sister  too,  said  Dare.  Let  you 
Lalloc  here  be  telling  the  truth  to  the  Bishop's  legate, 
about  the  temptations  we've  been  giving  to  Father 
Scothine,  and  how  hard  put  we  were  to  keep  them  up 
and  we  wanting  to  go  asleep.  There's  no  need  for  her 
to  tell  him,  said  Scothine,  for  you'll  be  lying  with  him 
this  night  instead  of  with  myself,  and  I'll  back  you  to 
give  him  as  good  as  you  give  me,  and  good  you  gave  it. 
We'll  do  that  surely,  the  girls  replied.  Isn't  it  plain  to 
you  now,  Brenainn,  that  they  are  talking  out  of  their  own 
mouths  and  not  out  of  mine?  It's  plain,  Brenainn 
answered;  it  is  plain.  And  he  said  he  wished  he  was  as 
sure  of  heaven  as  Scothine,  but  that  he  wasn't  a  bit  sure, 
and  he  would  have  been  out  of  the  house  and  away  on 
the  minute  if  Scothine  hadn't  got  a  grip  of  his  arm.  The 
Bishop  mightn't  believe  you,  said  Scothine;  he  might 
say,  or  there's  them  might  say  it  for  him,  that  we'd  been 
fooling  you  up  to  the  two  eyes.  Lie  with  the  girls  to- 
night; do  the  deed  the  way  I  did  it,  for  only  in  that  way 
can  we  keep  our  characters  in  this  world  of  the  tongues, 


166      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

and  be  straight  with  the  Bishop.  Out  of  your  own  sight 
and  hearing,  said  Dare;  and,  wiping  her  eyes,  Lalloc  re- 
peated :  the  only  fair  way,  your  Reverence.  If  you  don't 
our  characters  will  be  lost  for  ever,  and  a  girl  without 
her  character  has  no  chance  in  life. 

He'll  do  it,  Scothine  said,  and,  pushing  Brenainn 
before  him  up  the  stairs,  he  called  to  the  girls  to  light 
the  censers.  What  are  the  censers  for?  Brenainn  asked. 
We  will  pray  together  that  strength  may  be  given  to  you, 
and  no  sooner  were  these  words  out  of  his  mouth  than 
the  girls  came  up  the  stairs  singing  a  psalm,  as  was  their 
wont  when  Scothine  was  the  penancer,  and  after  seeing 
that  the  bed  was  easy  if  Brenainn  should  escape  from  his 
tormentors  in  sleep,  which  might  happen,  for  he  had  come 
a  long  way  on  foot,  Scothine  bade  them  all  good-night  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  rejoicing,  good  man  though 
he  was,  at  the  suffering  and  the  trouble  would  be  put  on 
Brenainn  that  night. 

But  he  wasn't  more  than  half-way  down  the  first  flight 
of  stairs  when  he  was  stopped  by  a  sudden  little  whisper 
in  his  ear.  It  was  his  good  angel  come  to  tell  him  that 
he  had  been  listening  to  his  bad  angel  all  the  time, 
taking  one  for  the  other,  as  you  can  easily  do  if  you're 
not  careful,  for  the  bad  one  puts  on  the  whisper  of  the 
good  one  at  times,  and  after  listening  for  a  while  Scothine 
thought  he  ought  to  go  and  offer  his  peaceful  bed  to 
Brenainn  and  lie  himself  in  the  hot  place,  he  being 
better  able  to  bear  the  temptation.  But  there  seemed  to 
be  a  hand  in  the  darkness  keeping  him  back,  pushing  him 
down  the  stairs,  and  down  he  went  step  by  step  saying  to 
himself  that  after  all  he  wasn't  putting  anything  on  the 
man  that  he  hadn't  borne  with  himself;  and  asking  him- 
self why  should  he  be  patting  himself  on  the  back  and 
thinking  that  he  was  a  grander  man  than  Brenainn.  It 
is  the  evil  angel  surely  putting  these  evil  thoughts  into  my 
mind,  he  said;  and  it  wasn't  long  before  he  was  asking  him- 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY       167 

self  whether  it  was  because  he  wanted  to  get  the  better  of 
Brenainn  that  he  had  shoved  him  into  danger.  Get  the 
better  of  Brenainn!  Sco thine  cried  out  as  he  stood  by  his 
bed-side.  Why  should  I  want  to  do  the  like?  But  there's 
no  help  for  it  now,  what  is  done  is  done,  and  there's  the 
end  of  it,  he  said,  and  he  lay  down  in  the  bed.  But  his 
thoughts  kept  him  awake,  tumbling  over  each  other  all 
the  night  like  waves  in  the  bay,  so  afraid  was  he  that  he 
might  have  done  the  wrong  thing  in  landing  Brenainn 
into  the  midst  and  middle  of  temptation,  a  thing  which 
is  permitted  to  no  man  to  do,  for  no  one  knows  another 
man's  strength,  only  God  knows  that.  But  if  the  devil 
should  worst  him  in  the  battle  my  prayers  and  fastings 
will  be  wasted,  and  it  will  be  an  easy  job  for  him  to  lose 
the  game  with  a  girl  like  Dare  lying  alongside  of  him. 
But  is  that  sure?  She'll  tell  him  if  he  gets  wild  that  he 
must  lift  up  the  window  and  stand  in  the  cistern  till  he 
gets  cool;  but  if  Dare  should  fall  asleep  the  devil  may 
get  hold  of  the  little  one,  who  would  put  her  arms  about 
Brenainn's  neck  and  tempt  him  to  sin  with  her,  for  she's 
but  a  child,  and  has  no  more  than  a  smattering  of  religion 
as  yet,  and  if  Lalloc  falls  asleep  Dare  may  stick  a  tempta- 
tion on  to  poor  Brenainn  which  his  strength  is  not  great 
enough  to  resist.  We're  all  liable  to  strong  weaknesses, 
Dare  like  the  rest,  like  her  mother  Eve. 

If  I  was  wrong,  O  great  and  merciful  God,  in  whose 
girdle  is  the  key  of  purgatory's  gate,  tell  me  if  I've  done 
wrong  in  letting  Brenainn  lie  in  my  place  to-night. 
There's  no  key  to  hell's  gate,  I  know,  for  it's  always  open; 
wide  it  is,  and  gaping,  but  it  isn't  hell  that  I've  been 
deserving,  for  my  act  wasn't  heinous,  but  only  a  while  in 
purgatory,  and  out  of  that  dismal  place  thou  wilt  give  me 
a  free  pass.  Well  I've  earned  it  by  my  fastings  and  prayers 
which  are  written  down  in  the  Great  Book,  and  the  days 
I  spent  on  the  crags  picking  up  a  gull's  egg  out  of  the 
nest  or  a  clutch  of  dulce  from  the  shore. 


168      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

And  when  Scothine  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  prayers 
and  his  lamentations  he  gave  a  great  cry  out  of  him,  and, 
unable  to  bear  with  his  fears  any  longer,  he  jumped  out  of 
the  bed,  saying:  I  can  stick  it  no  longer.  I  must  find  out 
whether  God  or  the  devil  got  the  best  of  it  in  the  next 
room  or  if  nobody  won  yet.  But  no  sooner  was  he  on  his 
legs  than  a  weakness  fell  upon  him  which  he  couldn't 
understand,  for  there  was  little  strength  in  him  and  he 
couldn't  as  much  as  walk  away  from  the  bed.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  it  must  be  the  devil  was  holding  him  back. 
Gripped  I  am  and  held  I  am,  he  said,  and  he  was  shaken 
with  a  great  fear  and  a  squeamy  feeling  in  the  insides,  so 
that  he  did  not  know  whether  he  ought  to  go  back  to  his 
bed  or  what  to  do.  I'll  pray,  said  he.  I'll  pray,  for  that's 
the  last  resource  of  the  sinner,  and  falling  on  his  knees 
he  began  praying,  without  knowing  what  he  was  praying 
about,  and  his  prayers  went  on  and  on,  himself  all  in  the 
dark  about  them.  He  didn't  feel  his  knees  under  him, 
though  the  hours  of  the  night  were  going  by,  nor  the 
cold  of  the  morning,  though  he  was  in  his  pelt. 


CHAPTER  25. 

THE  sun  had  risen  above  the  mountains  and  he  was  still 
praying  that  Brenainn  might  come  out  of  the  fiery 
furnace  a  better  man  than  he  went  in.  Dear  God,  let 
him  not  be  tempted  too  much,  he  was  saying  to  himself; 
not  above  his  strength,  dear  God,  for  I've  been  thy 
faithful  servant  this  many  a  year,  and  the  temptation  of 
pointed  breasts  and  smooth  limbs  is  great  to  a  man  of 
his  years,  although  he  be  but  a  roll  of  lard  to  look  at; 
he's  young,  dear  God,  he  is  young  and  unprepared  for 
the  temptation  by  a  long  diet  of  water-grass  and  nuts. 
Another  long  cry  burst  from  him,  and  he  was  starting 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      169 

off  on  another  prayer,  when  a  knock  come  on  the  door. 
Scothine  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  thinking  it  was  the  girls 
come  to  give  him  news  of  Brenainn,  he  went  to  meet 
them.  But  it  was  Brenainn  himself  come  to  tell  him 
that  the  girls  had  gone  home  an  hour  ago  and  that 
Scothine  ought  to  be  dressing  himself  if  he  was  going 
to  say  Mass. 

I've  stayed  on  a  bit,  he  continued,  so  that  I  may 
be  serving  your  Mass  for  you.  You  had  a  fine  easy 
night  of  it,  Scothine,  he  said,  and  have  overslept  yourself. 
Overslept  myself!  said  Scothine.  Why  shouldn't  you 
be  oversleeping  yourself,  and  you  lying  quiet  in  the 
comfortable  bed?  said  Brenainn,  and  he  turned  away 
gloomily.  The  thought  was  in  Scothine  that  the  gloom 
on  Brenainn's  face  might  be  the  shadow  of  the  sin  he 
had  committed  during  the  night,  but  he  said  nothing 
about  that,  only:  I'll  be  with  you  presently.  Brenainn 
hadn't  been  out  of  the  room  long  before  Scothine  fell  on 
his  knees  again  to  pray  to  God  that  any  sin  Brenainn 
had  committed  might  not  be  visited  upon  him.  But 
what's  done  cannot  be  undone,  he  said  to  himself:  there's 
the  end  of  that,  he  said,  whatever  way  it  went,  and 
rising  from  his  knees,  and  beginning  to  dress  himself,  he 
shouted  over  the  banisters  to  Brenainn  that  he  wouldn't 
be  delaying  long  and  that  Brenainn  might  start  off  to 
the  chapel  and  ring  the  bell. 


CHAPTER  26. 

THE  people  up  from  the  village,  as  they  watched 
Scothine  reading  the  Mass  to  the  right  and  to  the  left, 
thought  that  his  face  was  pale  and  full  of  weakness, 
and  they  feared  he  would  be  overcome  and  that  Brenainn 
would  have  to  finish  the  Mass  for  him.     But  he  stuck 


170      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

it  out  and  went  right  on.  And  when  he  came  to  the 
Communion  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to  put  the  Host  on 
the  tongues  of  Dare  and  Lalloc,  for  he  didn't  think 
they'd  have  taken  it  if  there  had  been  sin,  and  he  con- 
tinued to  put  his  trust  in  God  till  the  end  of  the  Mass. 
And  after  the  Mass  the  two  priests  went  into  the  house 
and  ate  their  breakfast  without  a  word  passing,  until 
Scothine  said:  and  what  message  will  you  be  taking 
back  to  the  Bishop  about  me?  You're  the  greatest 
saint  in  Ireland,  Brenainn  answered,  and  that's  what 
I'll  tell  the  Bishop.  I'll  tell  him  that  same.  I  hope 
that  some  part  of  what  you  say  is  the  truth,  Scothine 
answered,  and  he  ate  two  or  three  mouthfuls  of  oat- 
cake. In  those  days  oatcakes  was  the  breakfast  fare, 
with  a  noggin  of  ale  or  milk,  for  not  a  drop  of  tea  was 
in  Ireland,  as  your  honour  knows,  till  centuries  after. 
Scothine  only  drank  water  himself,  but  he  had  a  noggin 
of  milk  to  offer  Brenainn,  who  seemed  glad  of  it.  He 
may  be  a  saint  after  all,  Scothine  said  to  himself;  and  my 
innocence  must  be  plain  to  him  by  the  maidenheads  of 
the  girls;  but  he  didn't  like  to  ask  Brenainn  about  the 
thing,  though  his  heart  was  sick,  and  his  thoughts  were 
teasing  him  like  bees,  one  stinging  him  here  and  another 
there  till  he  was  stung  all  over.  At  last  Brenainn  said: 
well,  I  must  be  going;  the  day  wastes  after  midday  and 
I've  a  long  way  before  me.  I'll  take  a  cake  along  with 
me.  Take  two;  take  three  or  four;  you  won't  be  at  your 
door  till  dark,  and  now  the  thought  is  upon  me  that  your 
way  through  the  forest  is  full  of  danger.  You  may  be 
overtaken  by  the  evening  wolves,  or  you  may  fall  in  with 
robbers.  What  do  you  say  to  preparing  yourself  for  your 
death  by  kneeling  down  there  and  making  your  confession? 
Faith,  he  said,  I  will;  and  down  he  plumped  on  his  two 
knees.  Wait  a  bit,  Scothine  cried,  till  I  get  my  stole, 
and  when  he  had  it  on  he  was  sure  of  knowing  the  truth. 
Now  tell  me,  how  did  things  pass  with  you  last  night? 


A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      171 

I  didn't  know,  Brenainn  answered,  till  the  door  was  shut 
upon  myself  and  the  girls  that  I  would  have  to  lie  with 
them  and  keep  myself  from  temptation  the  best  I  could. 
Nor  did  I  know  if  I'd  be  able,  and  when  they  were 
stripped,  I  said:  glory  be  to  God,  will  I  get  out  of  this, 
or  will  my  soul  be  roasted  on  me  for  the  pleasure  of  a 
night?     It  wasn't  so  much  the  little  one. 

I  understand  that,  Scothine  said;  I  understand  that; 
get  on  with  your  confession. 

It  was  the  big  one  that  perplexed  me  and  drove  me 
as  wild  as  a  puckaun  for  the  first  half-hour.  But  the 
backside,  the  red  hair,  the  round  eyes  shining  like  stars 
can  be  overcome  by  prayer,  said  Scothine.  It's  true, 
indeed,  Scothine,  but  she  was  at  me  all  the  while,  saying: 
for  the  temptation  thou  resistest  to-night  thou  shalt  receive 
a  great  reward  in  heaven.  That's  where  you  should  have 
meditated  on  the  cross,  Scothine  whispered.  I  did  that, 
you  may  be  sure,  Scothine,  and  she,  knowing  my  great 
torment,  said:  keep  on  saying  your  prayers,  or  turn  to 
my  little  sister,  for  she  won't  be  stirring  you  up  as  I  seem 

to  do.     But  the  little  sister  was  asleep She  was 

asleep,  was  she?  Scothine  cried  out.  She  was  that,  and 
every  moment  I  thought  that  I  was  a  lost  man.  Such 
restlessness,  Dare  said,  is  not  in  the  bond.  If  you're 
as  bad  as  this  in  the  first  hour,  what  will  you  be  later 
on  when  I  wake  my  sister  and  we  begin  the  greater 
temptations?  Are  there  greater  ones  than  these?  I 
asked.  There  are,  surely,  she  said,  and  you  must 
prepare  for  them  by  the  tub,  the  way  Scothine  does 
when  he's  hard  hit.  The  tub!  I  cried.  Yes,  she  said; 
up  with  you  and  I'll  show  it  to  you.  And  taking  me 
to  the  window  she  told  me  to  climb  into  the  cistern, 
and  I  stood  in  the  cistern  up  to  my  neck  for  the  best  part 
of  half-an-hour.  It  wasn't  till  then  I  was  let  back  into 
the  room,  and  the  pipes  were  given  to  me.  You  can  play 
them?  Dare  said.     I  can  that,  I  said. 


172      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

And  you  stood  the  test  of  the  dancing,  did  you? 
Scothine  asked. 

For  a  while;  but  I  had  to  make  a  lep  for  the  cistern  to 
prepare  myself  for  the  game  of  leap-frog,  and  the  greater 
temptations. 

And  you  withstood  them  all  without  incontinence, 
voluntary  or  involuntary?  I  did  so.  Well,  then,  let  us 
pray  together,  and  let  us  thank  God  that  you  were  able 
to  keep  the  devil  out  of  the  bed,  for  I  was  afeared  for 
you,  and  on  my  knees  I  prayed  all  the  night  long  that 
you  might  be  swung  up  to  heaven  in  a  golden  scarf  and 
not  let  down  into  hell  on  a  black  pulley.  Brenainn,  it 
may  be  that  my  prayers  saved  you.  Why  should  you  be 
taking  all  the  credit  to  yourself,  Scothine,  believing,  in 
your  vanity,  that  you're  the  only  man  in  Ireland  that  can 
lie  with  two  young  women  without  sinning  with  them, 
if  you  be  not  on  your  knees  in  the  next  room  praying 
that  strength  may  be  given  unto  him?  A  sore  place  this 
would  be  for  God  to  rest  his  eyes  on  if  I  were  the  only 
one,  Scothine  answered,  and  Brenainn  turned  his  eyes  on 
Scothine,  trying  to  understand  him.  Then  why  were  you 
praying  for  me?  Hadn't  you  been  with  the  girls  yourself 
and  didn't  you  know  all  their  tricks?  I've  only  dared  the 
temptations  after  a  diet  of  water-grass  and  acorns,  but  you 
overcame  the  temptation  of  the  thighs  and  the  temptation 
of  the  breasts,  and  the  feast  of  the  eyes  that  the  dancing 
affords,  and  the  game  of  leap-frog,  with  a  full  belly,  for 
I'm  not  forgetful,  though  I  was  at  the  moment,  of  the 
great  big  trout  that  we  ate  for  our  dinner.  It  was  the 
thought  of  the  trout  kept  you  awake  all  night  praying  for 
me?  Brenainn  asked.  It  was  that  and  nothing  else,  for 
why  should  you  not  succeed  where  I  have  succeeded? 
Scothine  continued.  And  your  thought  all  the  time,  my 
poor  friend,  was  that  I  might  lose  my  soul  through  you. 
That  is  so.  I  was  asking  myself  all  last  night  what 
would  happen  to  me  at  all  if  my  share  of  the  thing  had 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      173 

lost  your  soul,  Brenainn.  But  let  us  say  no  more  about 
it.  You  threw  out  the  temptation  after  eating  the  trout, 
and  it  weighing  two  and  a  half  pounds  if  it  weighed  an 
ounce.  I  couldn't  get  that  trout  off  my  mind,  and  my 
conscience  was  sorely  stricken  that  I  should  have  led  you 
into  temptation  after  eating  the  trout,  and  all  the  night 
on  my  knees  my  entrails  were  wambling,  and  my  head  so 
light  that  I  hardly  knew  what  kind  of  prayers  I  was 
saying,  the  way  they  were  coming  and  going  like  sparks 
from  a  smith's  anvil.  But  I'm  talking  too  much.  Tell 
me  at  once  that  there  was  no  incontinence.  There  was 
none,  Brenainn  replied.  Then  you're  a  great  man  and  a 
holy  man  indeed,  a  great  glory  to  Ireland  herself;  you're 
all  that,  and  I'll  shrive  you  this  instant  of  the  venial  sins 
you've  committed,  for  there  are  always  venial  sins,  and  it 
were  better  that  the  earth  and  sun,  moon  and  stars  should 
fall  out  of  their  places,  and  the  skies  be  for  ever  empty, 
than  that  the  least  sin  should  be  committed,  so  great  is 
the  least  of  these  in  God's  sight.  And  Scothine  began 
the  Latin  prayer,  mumbling  through  it  quickly,  his  voice 
getting  clear  at  the  words  "absolvo  te".  And  these  being 
pronounced,  Brenainn  rose  from  his  knees.  And  now, 
Scothine,  one  last  question:  tell  me,  when  we're  in 
heaven  together,  will  these  two  girls  be  given  to  me  or 
will  they  be  given  to  ycu?  If  they're  given  to  anyone, 
Scothine  answered,  his  face  clouding  a  little,  they  should 
be  given  to  me.  But  you  didn't  resist  them  with  a  trout 
weighing  two  and  a  half  pounds  in  your  belly !  Didn't  you 
eat  half  the  trout  yourself,  so  there  was  only  a  pound 
and  a  quarter  after  all.  Don't  let  us  be  arguing  about 
what's  going  to  happen  to  us  in  heaven,  but  do  you  be 
looking  out  and  searching  in  your  own  parish  for  two 
other  girls  that  may  tempt  you  as  mine  have  tempted 
you,  and  get  you  up  into  the  front  row.  I'll  do  that  if  the 
Bishop  lets  me,  but,  Scothine,  in  heaven  there  is  neither 
marriage  nor  giving  in  marriage.     We've  read  that  in  the 


174      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

scriptures.  You're  a  great  story-teller,  Alec,  and  I  fell  to 
thinking  that  the  priests  departed  from  each  other  in 
happiness,  and  with  a  little  regret  at  the  back  of  the 
happiness  which  neither  could  understand,  so  entirely 
without  cause  did  it  seem  to  both  of  them. 


CHAPTER  27. 

WE  had  left  Westport  in  plenty  of  sunshine,  but  as 
soon  as  we  came  to  the  great  bog,  lying  between 
Westport  and  Loch  Conn,  squalls,  charged  with  stinging 
rain,  rushed  down  upon  us  from  the  hills,  dun-coloured  hills 
frowning  under  their  cloud  caps;  and  the  road  we  were 
following  seemed  so  unlikely  to  lead  us  towards  woods 
filled  with  rhododendrons  (now  in  their  decline,  my  host 
said,  as  we  started,  the  flush  of  June  being  over;  a  sort 
of  evening  hour  of  beauty  gone,  I  cried  back  to  him) 
that  when  I  found  myself  crouching  behind  a  turf  stack 
for  shelter,  the  suspicion  rose  up  quite  naturally  that  we 
were  being  befooled.  Alec,  I  said,  do  you  think  Mr. 
Ruttledge  is  putting  a  joke  upon  us?  Mr.  Ruttledge  isn't 
the  man  would  make  it  a  joke  to  send  you  off  to  Loch 
Conn  for  a  wetting,  Alec  answered.  I've  never  been  in 
this  part  of  the  country  myself,  but  I've  heard  of  the 
rhododendrons,  and  we  shall  be  among  them  soon  if  your 
honour  will  have  patience;  you  see  the  weather  is  mending, 
the  clouds  are  lifting  from  the  tops  of  the  hills  yonder. 
But  the  bog,  I  said.  It  seems  as  if  it  was  going  on  for 
ever.  That  is  the  way  with  a  bog,  your  honour;  it  ends 
and  begins  without  any  warning.  I've  remarked  the 
same  thing  myself,  I  answered,  and  we  trudged  for  two 
miles  more,  weary  travellers  at  last  rewarded  by  the 
sight  of  green  hill-sides.  Now  wouldn't  this  be  the 
domain  Mr.  Ruttledge  was  talking  about?  Alec  asked, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      175 

and  my  surprise  was  great,  for  the  woods  seemed  to  me 
to  become  more  beautiful  as  we  proceeded  into  them, 
rising  steeply  from  the  shores  of  the  lake,  and  full,  as 
my  host  had  told  me,  with  declining  bloom,  white,  pink, 
purple  and  mauve,  with  one  great  tree  flaunting  so 
insolently  over  the  ruin  of  the  gate  lodge,  or  steward's 
house  or  cabin  (it  matters  not  which,  once  a  human 
habitation)  that  it  was  pleasant  to  pass  into  the  demure 
woods;  the  world  we  live  in  being  a  green  one,  our  eyes 
return  to  green  eagerly  after  too  much  colour. 

We  had  been  told  that  we  should  find  the  Royal 
Osmunda  by  the  lake-side,  and  the  owner  conducted  us 
from  terrace  to  terrace  till  we  came  to  a  plank  bridge,  a 
crazy  structure  that  had  been  built  out  into  the  marsh; 
there  were  gaps  in  it,  but  with  the  aid  of  stepping-stones 
we  reached  the  corner  in  which  the  great  fern  grew,  but 
alas,  it  grew  in  such  profusion  that  we  took  little  pleasure 
in  it  and  returned  inland  disappointed,  depressed  perhaps 
tells  my  feelings  better.  I  shall  expect  you  back  at 
tea-time,  the  owner  said,  after  giving  us  leave  to  roam 
his  woods  whither  it  might  please  our  fancy,  calling 
us  back  to  advise  an  excursion  to  a  ruin.  We  should 
find  it,  he  said,  if  we  followed  the  lake  shore  for  about 
half-a-mile.  But  I  do  not  know  that  it's  worth  visiting, 
he  added  on  consideration;  very  little  of  the  original 
convent  remains.  But  the  evening  looks  like  clearing, 
and  if  you  meet  an  old  peasant  ask  him  to  tell  you 
the  story  of  a  nun  who  is  buried  there.  I've  only 
heard  it  hinted  at.  A  saint  it  appears  she  was.  You 
may  be  more  successful  than  I  have  been;  you  see  I'm 
a  stranger,  an  Englishman  living  on  good  terms  with 
the  people  but  looked  upon  as  an  alien.  We'll  try,  I 
said,  turning  my  eyes  towards  Alec.  A  moment  before 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  described  an  awakening  of 
interest  in  his  face.  He  knows  the  saint's  story,  I  said  to 
myself,  and  hoping  to  hear  it  from  him,  I  thanked  the 


176      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

owner  and  entered  his  woods  again;  a  beautiful  and 
silent  domain,  I  said,  not  a  bird  singing  in  it,  for  the 
rain  is  threatening  still;  a  strange  day,  not  a  wave  on 
the  beach  nor  patter  of  hare  or  rabbit  among  the  leaves. 
Sorra  one,  said  Alec.  And  we  walked  idly  to  the  little 
pier,  almost  forgetful  of  the  ruin  we  had  been  invited 
to  go  in  search  of.  A  boatless  pier,  I  said.  What 
has  become  of  the  owner's  boats?  Alec  was  unable  to 
answer  me  and  we  stood  gazing  across  the  lake.  Not  a 
gull,  nor  a  sand-piper,  nothing  but  the  gaunt  shores 
yonder.  A  lake  famous  for  its  trout,  I  added,  hoping  to 
tempt  Alec  into  an  observation.  It  was  once  the  finest 
water  in  Ireland  for  trout,  he  answered,  but  it  is  no  good 
since  they  got  rid  of  the  pike.  But  the  pike  ate  the 
trout,  I  said.  All  the  same,  Alec  replied,  where  there 
are  no  pike  there  are  no  trout:  they've  ruined  the  lake. 
He  nudged  me  and  pointed  to  a  great  heap  of  stones  by 
the  little  pier.  Stoats,  he  whispered,  and  in  response  to 
an  imitation  given  with  his  lips  of  a  rabbit  wounded  or 
in  distress,  four  little  red  heads  peeped  out.  The  game- 
keeper will  be  able  to  get  them  all  by  the  end  of  the 
week;  catch  the  bitch  first  and  then  the  young  ones 
will  come  looking  after  her  and  trot  into  the  trap. 

It  seemed  to  me  sad  that  the  pretty  litter  of  red  animals 
should  all  be  struggling  in  traps  before  the  end  of  the 
week,  and  to  rid  myself  of  the  doleful  spectacle  I  began 
to  ask  questions  about  the  ruin;  a  famous  convent  it  was, 
no  doubt,  in  the  years  back.  You've  heard  of  it,  Alec? 
I've  heard  of  it  surely,  he  muttered,  and  we  walked  on 
in  silence  through  wet  stones  and  tussocks  and  juniper 
bushes.  A  poor  country,  I  said,  grey  lake  and  gaunt 
shores,  naked  everywhere  save  whence  we  have  come. 
But  Ireland  was  once  called  the  island  of  woods.  I've 
always  heard  it  was  here,  he  said,  interrupting  my 
meditation;  and  I  found  myself  beside  an  ivied  ruin. 
"Ruin"  seems  an  exaggerated  expression,  for  there  was 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      177 

little  more  than  heap  of  stones  covered  with  a  thick 
mane  of  ivy,  but  a  closer  examination  of  the  ground 
disclosed  traces  of  ancient  walls  that  the  earth  had  not 
yet  overgrown.  Yes,  it  was  in  this  place,  he  repeated, 
that  one  of  Ireland's  greatest  sons  was  done  out. 

The  story  is  coming,  I  said,  but  dared  not  ask  Alec 
to  continue  it  lest  he  might  take  fright.  He  came  here 
from  the  wilderness  when  he  was  getting  a  bit  too  old 
to  live  on  water-grass  and  cockles.  You  remember 
Scothine,  your  honour?  He  that  put  the  great  trial  on 
Brenainn,  making  him  lie  between  two  virgins  with  round 
breasts  and  after  dining  him  on  a  fine  trout.  Well, 
Moling  was  another  such  a  saint  as  himself  before  he 
came  to  the  convent,  and  there's  no  saying  that  he 
wouldn't  be  as  high  in  heaven  to-day  if  it  hadn't  been 
— ah,  well,  'tis  true  what  they  do  be  saying,  that  no  man 
is  safe  from  temptation  till  he's  dead. 

There's  a  story  on  his  mind  without  doubt,  I  said  to 
myself,  and  I  could  listen  to  it  with  more  comfort  in 
these  woods  than  on  a  gusty  bog  trying  to  keep  my  hat 
from  blowing  away.  Don't  you  think,  Alec,  that  we're 
going  too  far?  I  asked,  and  tea  waiting  for  us  in  the 
house  beyond.  Faith,  a  cup  of  tea  would  be  better  than 
a  blow  of  a  stick,  he  answered  cheerfully;  but  I  thought 
your  honour  might  like  to  see  one  more  twist  of  the  lake. 

I've  heard  of  the  view  beyond  that  hill There  are 

few  things,  I  interrupted,  more  beautiful  than  a  fine 
evening  after  the  rain.  Whatever  your  honour  likes. 
Perhaps  the  tea  would  be  better,  I  answered,  and  as  soon 
as  we  came  to  the  ruined  wall  on  our  way  back  I  began 
to  examine  it,  without,  however,  putting  any  questions 
to  him.  I'm  slow  to  go  beyond  this  spot,  said  Alec, 
without  getting  down  on  my  two  knees,  wet  and  all  as 
the  ground  is. 

An  ill-judged  word  might  stop  the  story  on  his  lips, 
and  to  say  nothing  at  all  might  allow  it  to  pass  away. 


178      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

All  but  that  corner  wall  has  disappeared,  I  mentioned 
casually.  True  for  you,  Alec  murmured,  the  ground  has 
grown  over  most  of  the  convent,  all  but  her  grave  and 
the  clay  will  never  climb  over  that,  for  wherever  there's 
been  a  great  wickedness  done  there's  a  scar  left.  The 
story  is  coming,  he  will  tell  it,  and  how  suitable  these 
woods  are  for  the  telling  of  a  story,  these  quiet,  almost 
soundless  woods,  only  the  raindrops  falling  from  the 
leaves,  I  said,  and  began  to  admire  the  architecture  of 
the  trees — tall  boles  of  elm  and  beech  with  the  hills 
showing  through  the  top  branches,  and,  I  said  to  myself, 
the  misted  lake  through  the  lower.  A  beautiful  wood 
whose  monotony  is  relieved  by  a  rough  pine — that  one 
making  a  break  in  the  pale  greenery. 

But  the  story  Alec  was  cherishing  of  the  saint  who 
came  out  of  the  wilderness  in  search  of  temptations, 
like  Scothine,  but  who,  unlike  Scothine,  failed  to  conquer 
them,  diverted  my  attention  from  the  trees  to  Alec's 
anxious  face,  and  putting  together  all  my  knowledge  of 
Alec,  gathered,  it  is  true,  in  a  week's  intimacy,  and 
adding  to  it  my  instinctive  comprehension  of  what  is 
lowly  and  remote,  I  concluded,  rightly  or  wrongly,  I 
know  not  which,  but  I  concluded  that  outside  of  his  gift 
of  story-telling  he  differed  in  no  essential  fact  from  any 
casual  peasant  picked  out  at  Westport  on  market  day; 
and  that  if  I  pressed  the  analysis  a  little  further,  we 
should  come  to  this:  that  very  little  of  his  gift  of  story- 
telling is  personal  to  him — to  himself.  But  can  anyone 
say:  this  much  belongs  to  me  and  to  no  one  else?  Is  not 
all  reflection  and  derivation?  My  refusal,  however,  was 
firm  not  to  be  led  into  this  blind  alley,  and  fixing  my 
thoughts  firmly  on  Alec,  striving  to  see  him  steadily  and 
to  see  him  whole,  as  a  good  mid-Victorian  should,  I  said : 
his  gift  of  story-telling  amuses  me  because  it  is  new  to 
me,  but  it  is  as  old  as  the  hills  themselves,  flowing  down 
the  generations  since  yonder  hills  were  piled  up.     Sheep 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      179 

paths  worn  among  the  hills.  His  grandfather  or  grand- 
uncle,  whichever  the  Dublin  scholar  was,  trimmed  these 
paths  a  little.  Sheep  paths,  nothing  else.  Alec  is  a 
creature  of  circumstance,  and  like  myself  can  be  accounted 
for.  He  tells  stories  against  the  priests  and  nuns  of  the 
twelfth  century,  for  these  are  not  far  removed,  in  his 
knowledge  and  imagination,  from  druids  and  druidesses. 
It  was  only  a  few  centuries  before  the  twelfth  that  the 
druids  began  to  discard  the  oak  leaves  for  the  biretta; 
but  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  they  were 
full-bellied  Roman  priests;  by  that  time  the  word  had 
become  flesh;  it  is  just  touch  and  go  if  he  tells  me  the 
story  he  is  brooding  over  or  refrains  from  telling  it.  I 
can  do  nothing. 

On  this  thought  I  raised  my  eyes  for  another  look  at 
him,  and  as  I  did  so  Alec  said:  mind  he  must  have  been 
one  of  the  greatest  saints  that  ever  fell  out  in  Ireland,  for 
it  was  the  great  deed  he  did,  saving  a  soul  from  the  devil 
himself.  I  told  your  honour,  as  I  should  have  done,  that 
it  was  at  the  end  of  his  life;  he  came  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness where  he  had  been  along  with  the  hermits,  since  he 
was  a  bit  of  a  gossoon  living  on  cress  and  gulls'  eggs.  It 
was  after  twenty  years  of  the  tough  eating  that  he  came 
to  rest  his  bones  in  the  convent  that  you  saw  this  day. 
A  man  between  fifty  and  sixty,  yet  the  diet  did  not  seem 
to  have  taken  a  feather  out  of  him,  for  his  hair  was  as 
black  as  you  like,  and  it  hung  down  on  his  shoulders  in 
fine  curls,  and  the  pair  of  eyes  in  his  head  were  as  shiny 
as  a  young  cat's.  A  spare,  wiry  little  man  that  no  one 
would  believe  to  be  so  old.  But  it  was  just  as  I'm 
telling  you.  He  came  out  of  the  wilderness  between 
fifty -five  and  sixty  to  hear  the  confessions  of  nuns  by  the 
lake  beyond;  he  came  down  from  the  crags  above  Old 
Head.  You  know  Old  Head,  your  honour.  Mr.  Rutt- 
ledge  goes  there  every  summer  with  the  children  to  swim. 
It  was  there  Moling  had  been  living  many  a  year  the  way 


180      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

I  told  you.  A  queer  place  it  is  too,  and  he  thought  that 
his  rest  was  well-earned  anyhow.  But  there  was  no  rest 
for  him  in  this  world,  poor  man,  from  the  day  he  waved 
his  hat  at  the  crags  above  Old  Head,  and  came  down  at 
the  trot  to  Loch  Conn  to  confess  the  nuns  of  Cuthmore. 
And  then  didn't  the  bad  luck  start  up  in  the  most  un- 
likely place,  in  the  mind  of  Sister  Ligach,  as  pious  a  one 
as  ever  wore  out  a  pair  of  knees  on  the  top  of  this  earth. 
I've  come,  Father,  she  said,  dropping  down  on  the  same 
bones,  I've  come  with  a  great  sin  stuck  in  my  conscience; 
but  I've  faith  in  the  sacrament  to  relieve  me.  Well  you 
might,  said  Moling,  for  you  are  the  one  got  well  instructed. 
On  these  words,  he  settled  his  stole  and  cocked  his  ear, 
and  wasn't  it  a  relief  to  him  to  learn  that  the  only  thing 
that  was  wrong  with  her  was  this,  that  she  wasn't  able 
to  pray  to  the  saints  to  put  in  a  word  for  herself  and  the 
sisters  in  the  convent.  A  light  sin,  surely,  but  being  a 
priest  he  had  to  blame  her,  and  tell  her  she'd  be  better 
off  remembering  the  saints  that  stand  by  us  when  the 
word  of  death  is  in  our  throats,  singing  and  praying  round 
the  throne  of  God  to  spare  them  that  do  be  passing  away 
from  the  world,  or  if  that  cannot  be  owing  to  mortal  sin, 
getting  their  share  of  purgatory  a  bit  easy. 

After  saying  all  this  he  thought  he  had  done  with 
her  and  that  she  would  get  up  from  her  knees,  but  there 
wasn't  a  move  out  of  her.  My  child,  said  he,  what  are 
you  waiting  for?  Well,  Father,  said  herself,  what  good 
would  it  be  for  me  to  be  leaving  you  and  I  not  making  a 
clean  breast  of  it?  I  confessed  that  I  can't  pray  to  the 
saints  any  longer,  but  I've  worse  than  that  in  my  head. 
Well  the  priest  puckered  up  his  lips  and  a  thoughtful 
look  came  into  his  eyes.  No  more  than  to  the  saints  am 
I  able  to  pray  to  the  holy  virgin  to  succour  us.  Are  you 
telling  me  that  you  can't  pray  to  the  holy  virgin,  the 
mother  of  the  blessed  God!  said  the  priest,  and  he  in  a 
fright.     Not  to  herself  who  bore  the  son  of  God  in  her 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      181 

womb?  It  is  like  that,  Father,  indeed.  The  priest  next 
to  jumped  out  of  his  skin  at  that,  and  the  chair  he'd 
been  sitting  on  fell  behind  him.  Pick  up  your  chair, 
Father,  and  hear  me  out,  said  Ligach,  or  you'll  be  sorry 
afterwards.  I  can  pray  to  no  one  but  to  Jesus  himself, 
said  she.  To  no  better  could  you  nor  anyone  else  be 
praying,  said  the  priest;  but  don't  forget  that  there  is 
no  one  could  put  in  a  word  better  or  quicker  for  you  and 
for  us  all  than  his  own  mother.  Tell  me,  my  child, 
who  would  he  be  likely  to  be  listening  to  more  than  to 
his  own  mother?  To  which  Ligach  replied:  the  truth 
indeed,  Father,  but  I've  no  thought  for  anybody  but 
himself,  and  there's  no  use  giving  a  prayer  when  your 
thoughts  aren't  in  it.  I  wouldn't  say  so  far  as  that,  said 
the  priest,  for  by  saying  the  prayers  themselves  the  sinner 
brings  himself  under  the  rule  of  the  Church,  and  the 
frozen  waters  of  his  heart  will  loosen  and  burst.  It  is 
as  you  say,  Father,  but  you  haven't  heard  all  yet.  I  can't 
say  a  prayer  at  Mass;  my  thoughts  aren't  on  the  Mass 
that  you're  saying,  but  out  in  the  garden. 

At  the  words  "out  in  the  garden"  Moling's  brow 
blackened,  and  maybe  it  was  the  quiet  drawl  of  the  girl 
got  him  on  the  raw  as  much  as  anything  else.  Is  it  that 
your  thoughts  are  out  gallivanting  in  the  garden  when 
I'm  calling  down  God  into  the  bread  and  wine?  But, 
Father,  isn't  it  much  of  a  much?  Isn't  it  the  same  thing? 
Jesus  gave  us  the  sacrament,  and  if  I'm  thinking  of  him 
I'm  thinking  of  what  is  going  on  at  the  altar  too.  It  is 
of  the  upper  chamber  in  which  he  ordered  the  sacrament, 
cried  the  priest,  that  you  should  be  thinking;  and  it 
would  be  better  still  if  your  thoughts  were  on  the  miracle 
and  me  at  it.  My  child,  I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand 
you.  I  haven't  got  the  rights  of  it  yet.  Well,  it's  like 
this,  Father;  all  the  time  you're  saying  your  Mass  I'm 
thinking  of  Jesus  on  the  cross,  and  he  suffering  great 
torments  for  me.     A  very  good  thought  that  is,  Moling 


182      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

answered;  a  holy  thought  indeed;  but  you  ought  to  be 
thinking  too  that  it  was  himself  ordered  the  apostles  to 
celebrate  Mass  when  he  was  gone.  I  believe  all  that, 
said  Ligach,  but  it's  the  way  that  his  suffering  on  the 
cross  puts  every  other  thing  out  of  my  head,  for  am  I  not 
his  bride  whom  he  will  take  in  his  arms?  That's  true 
for  you,  said  the  priest,  but  you  mustn't  be  thinking  too 
much  of  your  meeting  with  him  in  heaven.  It  is  well 
enough  for  you,  Father,  to  say  that,  but  'tis  of  our  meet- 
ing in  heaven  I'm  thinking  all  the  time,  and  there's 
nothing  will  ever  get  that  thought  out  of  my  mind. 

All  the  same  I  won't  be  refusing  you  absolution,  said 
he.  But,  Father,  will  you  be  hearing  me  out  first,  for  I've 
not  told  you  the  lot  of  it  yet?  A  great  part  of  my 
prayers  to  Jesus  is  that  he  will  be  giving  me  a  sign,  a  nod 
of  the  head  or  the  like.  Faith,  said  the  priest,  I  do  not 
come  to  this  place  to  listen  to  nonsense  and  rameis.  Say 
your  prayers  and  obey  the  rule,  and  let  me  be  hearing  the 
rest  of  the  parish.  How  many  more  are  there  waiting  to 
come  in  to  me?  Three  of  us,  Father.  And  now,  Ligach, 
if  you  want  my  absolution,  bend  your  head;  for  you  see, 
your  honour,  Moling  was  a  hot-tempered  man,  and  Ligach 
one  of  those  that  would  work  up  a  passion  in  the  greatest 
saint  in  heaven.  All  the  same,  said  she,  I'd  be  glad  of 
a  sign.  But  what  would  the  like  of  you  be  wanting  a 
sign  for?  Haven't  you  heard  that  humility  is  the  top  of 
the  virtues?     Be  off  with  you.     But  Ligach  wasn't  to  be 

outdone.     I'm  afraid,  Father,  without  a  sign Without 

a  sign  of  what?  snapped  out  Moling.  The  day  may  come, 
Ligach  continued,  when  I  shall  not  feel  as  sure  as  I  do 
now  that  he  suffered  all  those  torments  for  me.  I  want 
to  believe  always  and  to  be  sure  of  it,  never  thinking  of 
anything  but  my  belief  in  the  son  of  God  our  redeemer. 
You're  wanting  a  lot  and  plenty,  said  the  priest — to  live 
on  earth  as  we  shall  live  hereafter  in  heaven.  But  it's 
not  a  bit  too  much,  surely,  when  we  remember  the  death 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      183 

he  died,  which  I  never  can  let  out  of  my  thoughts. 
You're  a  good  little  nun,  said  the  priest;  I  used  to  be 
like  that  myself  in  the  years  back.  You'll  give  me 
absolution,  Father?  Faith,  I  will,  said  the  priest,  startled, 
for  he'd  been  away. 

Other  penitents  were  waiting;  he  shrove  them  all 
without  giving  much  of  his  mind  to  their  sins,  for  he  was 
thinking  of  Ligach  all  the  time,  and  on  leaving  the  chapel 
who  did  he  meet  but  Ligach  and  the  Mother  Abbess 
coming  in  from  the  garden,  Ligach  dripping  like  a  spaniel 
that  had  been  in  the  river.  Father,  cried  Mother  Abbess, 
I'll  ask  you  to  refuse  her  absolution  if  she  doesn't  give  in 
and  be  biddable.  Look  at  the  way  she  is  in,  and  you 
wouldn't  guess  where  I  found  her  in  three  guesses — in 
front  of  the  cross  kneeling  down  in  a  pool  of  water.  See 
the  way  she's  in — out  there  in  the  teeming  rain,  catching 
her  death  of  cold.  Go  and  change  your  clothes  at  once, 
my  child,  and  remember  that  the  first  duty  of  a  nun  is  to 
give  in  to  her  superiors.  To  back  up  the  Mother  Abbess, 
Moling  said  he  never  remembered  so  severe  a  winter, 
and  when  Ligach  came  to  confess  to  him  he  wasn't  a 
bit  surprised  to  hear  a  bad  cough.  The  cough  was 
followed  up  by  another,  and  before  she  could  confess  one 
of  her  sins,  she  was  taken  with  such  a  fit  of  coughing  and 
sneezing  that  Moling  said:  my  child,  that's  the  bad  cold 
you've  got,  and  a  cough  on  the  top  of  it.  Yes,  I  suppose 
I  got  it  in  the  garden,  for  it's  been  wet  enough  there 
lately.  But  didn't  I  hear  the  Mother  Abbess  tell  you  that 
you  weren't  to  go  there?  You  did,  Father.  But  it  was 
for  a  sign  I  was  praying,  and  if  I  do  not  get  one  I  may 
fall  into  a  worse  sin  than  that  of  disobedience.  Now 
what  sign  are  you  wanting?  asked  Moling.  A  sign  that 
he  is  waiting  for  me  in  heaven.  You've  got  a  bad  cold,  a 
very  bad  one,  the  priest  repeated.  Faith,  I  have,  but  a 
cold  is  a  small  matter  compared  to  what  he  suffered  on 
the  cross.     'Tis  true  for  you,  said  Moling,  but  a  cold  may 


184      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

put  an  end  to  you  just  as  well  as  a  thrust  of  a  spear. 
You  wouldn't  be  comparing  myself  to  himself,  would  you? 
said  the  nun.  Of  course  not,  the  priest  snapped  out,  and 
began  to  speak  hard  and  stiff  about  her  folly  in  wanting 
God  to  grant  her  special  favours.  You're  sinning  in  the 
sight  of  God,  said  he,  by  endangering  your  life  in  the 
way  you're  doing.  Be  off  with  you  now;  and  Ligach  just 
bowed  her  head,  and  her  cough  was  so  bad  as  she  left  the 
chapel  that  the  priest  would  have  taken  his  words  back 
if  he  could,  and  not  being  able  to  do  that,  he  rang  the 
parlour  bell  as  soon  as  he  had  had  dinner  and  asked  for 
herself. 

Now,  said  he  to  herself,  Ligach  has  as  bad  a  cough  as 
I've  ever  heard  in  my  born  days,  and  the  Mother  Abbess 
answered:  true  for  you,  Father;  it  keeps  us  all  awake  at 
night.  We  can  hear  her  all  over  the  convent  barking, 
and  now  there  are  three  other  sisters  and  the  lot  almost 
as  bad  as  Ligach,  and  there  will  be  more  laid  up,  for  be  it 
wet  or  cold,  they're  all  kneeling  round  the  cross  catching 
their  full  of  cramps.  Well,  I  was  like  that  myself  once; 
and  Moling  began  to  tell  of  the  years  he  spent  among  the 
gulls  on  the  crags  above  Old  Head,  and  the  twenty-three 
years  in  the  woods  living  on  water-grass.  For  thirty  years 
I  didn't  sleep  under  a  roof,  but  as  the  years  go  by  we 
begin  to  weary  of  the  things  that  we  hung  on  to  in  our 
youth.  But  our  lives  are  in  God's  hand;  we  belong  to 
God,  who  has  given  life  into  our  keeping,  and  expects  us 
to  look  after  it.  I'm  altogether  of  the  same  idea  as  your- 
self, the  Mother  Abbess  replied,  but  it  will  be  no  change 
while  that  same  cross  is  left  in  the  garden.  A  better 
place  for  it,  said  the  priest,  would  be  in  the  chapel.  Now 
you've  said  it,  Father,  and  as  soon  as  we  can  get  a  little 

help  we  will  have  the  cross Put  up  in  one  of  the  side 

chapels,  the  priest  interjected.     I'll  show  you  the  place. 

And  it  was  a  fortnight  after  the  shifting  of  the  cross 
that  Sister  Ligach  crawled  out  of  her  cell  more  dead  than 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      185 

alive;  the  others  were  well  before  her.  And  what  did 
she  do?  Out  with  her  into  the  garden  to  kneel  down  in 
front  of  the  cross  that  had  nearly  cost  her  her  life,  and 
finding  it  gone  out  of  the  garden,  she  cried:  how  are  we 
to  keep  our  thoughts  from  wandering  from  him  who 
died  for  our  sins  and  waits  for  us  in  heaven?  Do  we 
know  that  he  got  the  best  of  health  always  when  he 
lived  on  this  earth?  Not  a  word  in  the  scripture;  not 
a  word.  And  such  was  her  canter  till  Mother  Abbess 
had  to  say:  now,  Ligach,  obedience  is  the  first  rule  in 
a  convent.  But,  Mother,  think  what  he  suffered  for  me 
and  I  not  allowed  into  the  garden  for  his  sake.  Well, 
that  is  my  rule,  said  herself,  but  to  make  matters  lighter 
for  Ligach,  she  gave  the  young  nun  permission  to  rise 
out  of  her  bed  at  eleven  o'clock  and  go  into  the  chapel 
and  do  an  hour's  devotion  before  the  nuns  rose  out  of 
their  beds  for  matins.  At  which  indulgence  the  tears 
came  into  Ligach's  eyes,  and  she  said:  may  the  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  you  for  that.  It  is  all  I  can  give  you, 
the  Abbess  answered;  make  the  best  of  it,  Ligach.  Faith 
and  troth  I  will,  and  you  won't  be  left  out  of  the  prayers, 
Mother  Abbess.  And  every  night  Ligach  was  on  her 
knees  before  the  cross  praying  for  a  sign.  But  not  the 
sign  of  a  sign  nor  the  ghost  of  a  sign  came  near  her,  and 
when  she  next  went  to  confession,  she  said:  no  sign 
has  come  to  me,  Father,  and  the  temptation  is  always 
pushing  me  from  behind.  What  temptation  is  that  one, 
my  child?  the  priest  asked.  The  devil  himself  and  not 
one  of  his  bailiffs  either,  telling  me  always  that  if  I  can't 
get  a  sign  from  Jesus,  I  must  be  getting  one  from  himself, 
which  would  do  me  as  well.  My  child,  my  child,  do  you 
know  what  you're  saying?  I  do  indeed,  she  answered, 
and  I  cannot  help  myself  much  longer.  Every  time 
the  thought  comes  into  my  head  I  shake  it  and  say: 
Hail  Mary,  but  it  doesn't  help  me  at  all.  If  I  were 
you  I'd  give  myself  a  pinch  in  some  soft  spot,  said  the 


186      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

priest,  or  a  pin  I'd  stick  into  me  when  the  temptation 
came  around;  here's  one  for  Satan,  you  will  be  saying, 
as  the  pin  goes  into  your  thigh  or  your  bosom;  and  if 
you  aren't  hurt  enough  push  the  pin  into  the  sorest 
place  you  can  find,  under  one  of  your  nails,  and  if  that 
doesn't  stop  the  black  fellow  I'll  have  to  put  on  my 
considering  cap  and  think  it  out,  but  do  what  I  tell 
you  first. 

It  must  be  the  devil,  he  said,  as  he  walked  home 
thinking  what  he  could  do  to  save  her  soul;  and  if,  said 
he,  his  thoughts  taking  a  sudden  turn,  I  were  a  bit 
of  a  carpenter  I  might  make  something  with  a  pulley 
that  would  let  the  head  nod  at  her  when  she's  on  her 
knees  asking  for  a  sign;  a  nod  of  the  head  is  all  that's 
wanted  to  save  her  soul.  But  bad  luck  to  it,  for  I  am  an 
unhandy  man,  said  the  saint — for  he  was  a  saint,  or  a  sort 
of  a  saint,  your  honour,  though  a  sinner  into  the  bargain. 
I'm  no  good  at  carpentering;  there  isn't  one  in  the  town 
of  Westport  that  could  learn  me  in  a  year  what  the  little 
boy  playing  among  the  shavings  knows  already.  So  I 
needn't  be  getting  a  pain  in  my  head  thinking  about 
pulleys  and  the  like.  I'll  get  another  thought  soon,  and  a 
better  one.  Nor  was  he  long  waiting  for  a  second  thought ; 
in  five  minutes,  neither  more  nor  less,  he  had  it,  and  it 
frightening  the  life  out  of  him — the  queerest  thought  that 
ever  came  into  a  man's  head,  one  that  left  him  without  a 
prayer  to  throw  at  the  devil.  Let  me  at  all  events  be 
pulling  myself  into  a  shape  of  prayer,  he  said,  and  if  the 
thought  isn't  driven  off  while  I'm  down  on  the  knees,  I'll 
know  for  certain  it  was  sent  to  me  by  the  Lord  Jesus — for 
what  he  was  thinking  was  that  he  had  just  the  figure  for 
the  deed. 

It  is  as  like  as  not,  he  thought,  his  hair  was  as  black 
as  mine,  he  being  from  the  country  of  the  Jews,  but  they 
always  paint  him  with  fair  hair.  But  maybe  she'll  be  too 
deep  in  her  prayers  to  take  much  notice  of  the  colour  of 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      187 

my  hair,  if  any  colour  be  showing.  As  soon  as  she  lifts 
her  eyes  to  me  I'll  give  a  nod  of  the  head  to  her  from 
above  and  she'll  get  enough  faith  out  of  that  nod  to  last 
her  till  she's  called  up  before  the  throne  of  God.  But  if 
she  comes  kissing  my  feet  and  begging  me  to  come  down 
to  her  it  will  be  the  great  temptation  I  shall  be  over- 
coming, getting  thereby  a  higher  place  in  paradise  than 
them  gone  before  me;  for  a  chance  like  this  one  it  was 
well  worth  my  while  to  have  come  out  of  the  wilderness. 

The  priest's  thoughts  broke  off  suddenly,  and  after  one 
or  two  more  turns  up  and  down  his  garden  he  went  back 
to  the  house  with  the  fear  on  him  that  Jesus  might  not  be 
wishing  his  cross  interfered  with.  How  do  I  know  that  it 
isn't  Satan  is  tempting  me?  he  asked,  and  going  to  the 
holy-water  stoop  he  splashed  nearly  all  the  water  in  it 
about  him.  But  aren't  I  the  fool?  said  he;  for  why  should 
the  devil  be  prompting  me  to  save  a  soul  and  he  wanting 
as  many  as  he  can  get  hold  of?  It  is  God  himself  is  putting 
this  thought  into  my  head,  relying  on  me  to  outdo  the 
devil,  who  has  a  mighty  big  wish  on  him  at  present  to 
get  Sister  Ligach's  soul,  one  of  the  beautifulest  that  ever 
looked  out  of  a  human  face.  A  great  prize  she'd  be  to  him, 
surely.  The  face  of  a  saint  if  there  be  one  walking  about 
on  two  legs  in  holy  Ireland.  But  if  I  lose  my  soul  in  the 
saving  of  hers !  cried  Moling.  But  it  is  the  old  boy  himself 
that  is  putting  that  fear  into  my  head,  for  whoever  lost 
his  soul  while  at  the  work  of  robbing  the  devil  of  a  soul  he 
set  his  heart  on?  I'll  lead  her  out  of  the  chapel  quietly, 
and  bid  her  tell  no  one.  Risks  there  are,  he  said  a  few 
minutes  after,  in  every  hour  of  life,  but  a  holier  one  than 
mine,  which  is  to  rob  the  devil,  I  don't  know  of.  Now 
can  anybody  tell  me  it  won't  be  Jesus  himself  that 
will  be  thanking  me  for  the  robbing  on  the  day  of  judg- 
ment. .  .  .  But  I'm  bet  after  all — how  will  I  fix  myself 
up  on  the  cross?  The  image  is  nailed  there — nails  in 
the  hands  and  the  feet;  but  my  feet  aren't  made  of 


188      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

wood,  and  must  have  a  support;  and  for  my  hands  I 
must  have  two  rings  of  rope,  and  Moling,  not  being  much 
of  a  handy  man,  as  I've  said,  spent  many  hours  more  than 
another  would  have  done  making  them  rings. 

At  last  they  were  twisted  and  hidden  away  in  the 
chapel,  where  he  was  himself  at  half-past  ten,  removing 
our  Lord  from  his  cross  and  fixing  himself  up  in  his  place, 
which  he  had  just  time  to  do  before  Ligach  came  in  to  her 
devotions;  and  he  might  have  dropped  down  from  the 
cross  so  great  was  his  fear  that  she  might  see  the  loin- 
cloth was  missing  from  his  body,  for  he'd  forgotten  it  in 
his  hurry,  and,  says  he  to  himself,  if  Ligach  wasn't 
innocent  of  the  difference  in  the  make  of  a  man  and  a 
woman,  I'd  be  fairly  caught.  But  he  was  safe  enough, 
Ligach  having  no  thought  but  for  him  that  is  in  heaven. 
Christ  with  me,  Christ  before  me,  Christ  behind  me, 
Christ  in  me,  Christ  beneath  me,  Christ  above  me,  Christ 
on  my  right,  Christ  on  my  left,  Christ  when  I  lie  down, 
Christ  when  I  sit  down,  Christ  when  I  arise.  Thou'lt  not 
deny  me  a  sign,  said  she,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  cross;  it 
will  increase  my  faith  in  thee  till  thou  shalt  be  in  him 
that  sees  me,  in  him  that  I  see,  in  him  that  speaks  to  me, 
in  him  that  I  am  speaking  to,  in  him  that  I  hear  and  in 
him  that  hears  me.  And  seeing  and  hearing  naught  but 
thee,  so  would  I  live  and  die  aloof  from  all  else,  from  the 
world.  Dear  God,  I  would  be  unto  thee  on  earth  as  I 
shall  be  in  heaven.  A  sign,  a  sign  of  thy  love  of  me.  A 
sign  that  will  save  me  from  the  temptation  of  thinking 
that  the  devil  would  answer  rne  if  I  were  to  pray  to  him. 

On  hearing  them  terrible  words  the  priest  took  such 
a  fright  that  he  slipped  his  hands  out  of  the  ropes  and 
came  down  to  her,  sure  and  certain  that  he'd  be  able  to 
quiet  her.  But  while  he  was  telling  her  of  the  great 
meeting  it  would  be  for  them  both  up  in  heaven,  she 
kept  saying:  am  not  I  up  in  heaven  now?  the  sparks 
flying  out  of  her  eyes   all  the  time  as  you  might  see 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      189 

them  in  Jimmy  Kilcoin's  forge  when  he  pulls  at  the 
bellows.  Am  not  I  Christ's  bride?  she  kept  calling 
to  the  poor  man,  trying  his  best  to  get  to  the  holy 
water;  and  if  he'd  got  there  'tis  a  different  story  I'd 
be  telling,  but  the  senses  failed  on  him,  and  he  no  more 
than  a  yard  off  the  stoop,  and  when  they  came  back 
the  nun  was  beside  him  in  a  faint  so  deadly  that  he 
mistook  it  for  her  death.  It's  a  poor  thing  to  be  tempted 
like  this,  surely,  says  he;  but  no  more  than  a  venial  sin 
can  it  be,  for  'tis  the  intention  that  counts.  But  I  must 
be  attending  to  her,  and  it  took  a  lot  of  sprinkling  and 
calling  into  her  ears  that  she  must  obey  him  before  her 
lips  opened  and  she  muttered:  thy  will  be  done,  Lord. 
Open  your  eyes,  Ligach,  said  he;  and  she  opened  them, 
but  only  to  see  what  she  was  minded  to  see,  and,  led  to  the 
door  of  the  chapel,  she  heard  him  say:  what  has  fallen 
out  this  night  must  be  kept  to  yourself.  One  word  of 
it  to  anybody  and  the  sign  that  you  got  to-night  will  lose 
its  power,  and  the  blessing  will  be  changed  into  a  curse 
altogether.  Return  to  your  cell,  Ligach,  and  close  the 
door  behind  you. 

And  no  sooner  was  she  out  of  the  chapel  than  the  priest 
put  the  image  back  and  made  off  with  himself  in  the  great 
fright  of  his  life,  as  well  it  might  be,  for  by  dint  of 
what  had  passed  he  didn't  seem  to  know  himself  rightly 
at  all;  his  thoughts  were  all  astray,  and  he  couldn't  get 
them  together  in  his  poor  head.  At  one  moment  he 
was  thinking  that  he  had  planned  the  lot  from  the 
beginning,  and  the  next  that  if  he  hadn't  got  down  off 
the  cross  and  made  her  his  bride  she  would  have  come 
to  her  right  reason  and  found  out  what  a  trick  he  was 
working  on  her.  Her  faith  would  have  gone  for  good 
and  all,  he  cried  out,  and  instead  of  saving  a  soul  I'd 
have  well  damned  one  for  ever.  As  soon  as  she  came 
to  kiss  my  feet,  I  was  bound  to  come  down.  But  the 
rest?    All  right  from  her  side,  but  maybe  my  soul  is  lost. 


190      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

But  it  is  the  intention  that  counts;  and  all  night  he 
was  asking  Jesus  if  a  sin  committed  with  a  good  intention 
could  be  a  sin.  The  sins  of  the  flesh,  he  began  again, 
are  small  ones  compared  with  the  sins  of  the  spirit;  her 
sin  was  of  the  spirit,  mine  was  of  the  flesh.  The  flesh 
has  redeemed  the  spirit,  a  thing  which  doesn't  often 
happen,  for  it  is  usually  the  spirit  that  redeems  the  flesh. 
But  in  this  world  things  often  fall  out  contrary-like. 

She  won't  tell  anybody,  not  even  myself,  he  murmured; 
she  will  keep  her  sin  dark;  but  there  was  no  sin  on 
her  side,  only  on  mine,  and  on  mine  but  a  venial  sin, 
if  my  intention  was  to  save  a  soul,  which  it  was,  and 
a  man  should  be  judged  by  his  intentions,  so  it  is 
said. 


CHAPTER  28. 

BEFORE  long  it  seemed  to  the  nuns  that  Moling  hur- 
ried them  up  in  their  confessions ;  they  missed  the  bits 
of  kindly  reproof,  and  left  him  wondering,  saying :  his  mind 
is  off;  our  sins  don't  seem  to  matter  to  him.  It's  your  turn 
now,  Ligach ;  and  seeing  a  light  on  her  face  that  made  them 
think  of  the  sun  shining  on  the  sea,  they  said:  what's 
wrong  with  Ligach  this  time? 

Father,  she  said,  dropping  on  her  knees,  a  sign  has 
been  given  to  me,  and  a  greater  one  than  I  hoped  for, 
and,  the  nun  went  on:  he  came  down  from  his  cross  and 
took  me  in  his  arms.  But  no  sooner  were  the  words 
across  her  lips  than  a  great  fear  and  a  great  fright  came 
over  her.  Oh,  but  I've  been  told  not  to  speak  of  all  this; 
he  put  a  bond  on  me,  and  I've  broken  the  bond.  It 
would  have  been  broken,  the  priest  answered,  if  you'd 
spoken  to  anybody  but  myself.  Every  secret  is  safe  with 
me.  Don't  you  know  the  seal  of  the  confession  has  never 
yet  been  broken  and  never  will  be?    But,  Father,  a  bond 


A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      191 

was  put  upon  me  never  to  reveal  what  passed  between  us 
by  himself  at  the  door  of  the  chapel.  Am  I  not  the 
representative  of  Christ  on  earth?  Moling  asked,  and  when 
you  tell  me  what  happened  between  you,  you're  telling  it 
to  himself.  Haven't  I  the  power  to  bid  him  come  down 
from  heaven  into  the  bread  and  wine?  Must  he  not  obey 
me?  I  know  that,  said  Ligach,  I  know  it  well.  And 
don't  I  absolve  sins  that  are  committed?  'Tis  true  for 
you,  said  the  nun.     But  it  is  hard  to  tell. 

He  came  down  from  his  cross,  and  he  took  me  in  his  arms, 
and  made  me  his  bride  in  life  as  he  will  afterwards  in 
heaven.  'Tis  a  great  honour  he  did  to  you,  surely.  It  is  that, 
she  replied,  and  one  that  I  wouldn't  have  dared  to  think  of 
if  it  hadn't  happened  to  me,  but  it  is  just  as  I  told  it  to 
your  Reverence,  just  as  I  told  it,  and  no  way  else.  But 
not  a  word  out  of  you  about  this,  cried  the  priest.  I  won't 
say  a  word,  Father,  Ligach  replied,  for  I  was  told  not  to. 
And  now,  said  Moling,  I'll  be  giving  you  absolution.  But 
would  you  be  giving  me  absolution  for  being  visited  by 
himself?  I  forgot  that,  said  the  priest,  but  mind  what 
I'm  telling  you:  let  not  a  word  out  of  your  mouth  to 
anyone  of  this,  or  he'll  never  visit  you  again.  Visit  me 
again?  said  Ligach;  what  would  he  come  to  me  again  for? 
though  indeed  I'd  be  glad  if  he  did.  The  priest  did  not 
answer,  and  she  repeated:  for  what,  I'm  asking  you, 
Father,  would  he  visit  me  again?  And  the  priest  still 
not  saying  a  word  she  kept  on  at  him.  For  what,  I'm 
asking  you?  for  why  should  he  be  treating  me  different 
from  Mary,  who  was  visited  only  once  so  far  as  the 
scriptures  go.  True,  true,  said  Moling,  he  will  never 
come  to  you  again.  But  something  will  come  to  me,  for 
it  wasn't  for  nothing  he  came  down  from  his  cross.  Time 
will  prove  me  right.  I  was  forgetting,  said  the  priest. 
A  strange  thing  to  be  forgetting,  a  thing  that  doesn't 
happen  once  in  every  thousand  years,  she  replied. 


192      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


CHAPTER  29. 

WHAT  did  she  say,  Moling  asked  himself,  when  Ligach 
rose  up  from  her  knees  and  left  the  chapel;  what  did 
she  say  about  expecting?  Will  there  be  a  child?  he  asked. 
And  on  his  way  home  he  asked  himself  if  he  came  down 
from  the  cross  because  he  was  afraid  that  if  Ligach  did  not 
get  the  sign  she  had  been  praying  for  so  long  her  belief 
might  fade.  Did  she  not  tell  him  that  the  temptation 
was  pressing  her  from  behind  that  if  she  addressed  herself 
to  the  devil  she'd  get  an  answer?  O  Lord,  have  mercy 
upon  me,  he  muttered,  and  he  knew  that  all  the  colour 
was  out  of  his  face,  and  that  his  hand  was  trembling. 
I'm  bet  and  bothered  with  it  all,  said  he.  If  I've  sinned, 
forgive  me,  Lord.  But  who  is  to  tell  me  if  I  be  in 
mortal  sin  or  venial  sin?  Not  a  bishop  in  Ireland  could 
tell  me  that,  nor  the  Pope  of  Rome  himself,  for  what 
happened  last  night  never  happened  to  anybody  in  this 
world  before.  He  walked  on  a  bit  and  then  stopped 
again.  I'm  the  most  miserable  man  in  all  the  world, 
and  will  not  be  able  to  pull  through  this  business.  He 
went  on  walking  ahead,  mile  after  mile,  without  a 
prayer  in  his  heart  and  his  thoughts  tormenting  him, 
buzzing  in  his  poor  mind  like  flies  stinging  him,  stopping 
him  in  his  walk,  making  him  drop  his  knife  and  fork 
out  of  his  hand  when  he  was  at  his  dinner,  leaving 
him  staring  across  the  room,  thinking  of  the  good  days 
he  spent  with  the  hermits  living  on  water-grass,  and 
the  better  ones  when  he  was  on  his  own  picking  sea 
gulls'  eggs  out  of  the  rocks. 

Them  were  fine  days,  he  said,  and  I  had  the  good 
health  then,  but  it  is  all  going  now,  though  I'll  not  be 
what  you  would  call  an  old,  ancient  man  for  a  good  while 
yet.  It  is  the  fear  that  I  am  in  mortal  sin  is  destroying 
me  and  wasting  my  bones.     And  then  he  would  stop  to 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      193 

ask  himself  what  she  meant  when  she  said  that  something 
would  happen  to  her.  Was  it  a  child?  Of  course  it  was 
that  same,  and  he  hadn't  much  longer  to  wait  for  the 
news  from  herself  in  the  convent.  Father,  I  think  I'm 
with  child.  Women  that  live  in  chastity  are  often 
troubled  with  fancies,  and  to  speak  of  such  a  thing  and 

it  not  the  truth  might How  could  it  be  else,  said 

Ligach,  he  after  coming  down  from  his  cross  to  me?  All 
the  same  keep  it  to  yourself  till  the  child  leaps  in  your 
womb,  if  'tis  there  he  is,  he  said  to  her,  and  to  himself: 
the  news  will  soon  be  out;  the  nuns  will  soon  know  all 
about  it.  Highly  favoured,  they  will  say,  is  our  convent. 
And,  Ligach,  now  will  you  be  telling  the  others  that  I  can 
hear  no  more  confessions  to-day.  Oh,  my  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  cried  Moling,  as  soon  as  the  nun  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  the  torture  is  in  the  waiting!  And  from  that 
day  out  he'd  be  saying:  another  day  has  gone  by  and  I'm 
one  day  nearer  to  the  day  when  the  Mother  Abbess  will 
come  with  her  nuns,  Ligach  in  the  middle  of  them,  to  tell 
me  about  the  great  miracle:  Ligach  in  the  family  way 
though  she  has  never  known  a  man. 

The  weeks  went  by  and  he  counting  them  till  the 
week  came  when  he  said  to  himself:  she  must  be  seven 
months  gone,  yet  the  nuns  haven't  come  to  me,  though 
her  appearance  is  great.  As  these  very  words  were 
passing  through  his  mind  the  parlour  door  opened  and 
in  came  the  Mother  Abbess,  surrounded  by  her  nuns, 
with  Ligach  in  the  middle  of  them.  Father,  said  the 
Mother  Abbess,  we  have  come  to  tell  you  something 
you  will  find  it  hard  to  believe,  yet  it  is  true.  It's  a 
miracle,  surely,  said  Moling,  after  he  had  heard  the 
Mother  Abbess,  and  at  these  words  the  nuns  were  so 
overjoyed  that  they  linked  their  hands  and  danced  round 
Ligach  for  all  the  world  like  a  lot  of  children.  It  is  not 
for  me,  said  Moling,  as  soon  as  a  little  quiet  had  been 
gotten,  to  discourage  your  faith  in  the  miracles  that 


194      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

God  grants  to  us  sometimes  so  that  we  should  not 
altogether  forget  him,  but  I  call  upon  you  to  be  mindful 
that  you  all  keep  this  a  secret  among  yourselves,  for  if 
the  miracle  you  speak  of  should  not  prove  to  be  as  great 

a  miracle  as  you  think  it  is,  we  shall  be But,  Father, 

they  began,  it  is  either  a  great  miracle  or  it's  no  miracle 
at  all,  and  you're  the  last  man  that  should  say  a  word 
against  Ligach.  I  am  indeed,  said  Moling,  the  very 
last  in  the  world;  her  sweet  face  tells  that  she  knew 
no  kind  of  man  any  more  than  the  virgin  herself  did 
till  the  birth  of  our  Lord.  But  in  this  world  it's  not  so 
easy  to  find  believers;  there  are  always  gabby  tongues, 
and  this  neighbourhood  is  not  freer  from  them  than 
another.  But  who,  Mother  Abbess  asked  the  priest,  would 
say  a  word  against  our  little  Ligach,  whose  conception  is 
as  miraculous  as  Mary's?  and  the  priest,  without  a  word 
in  his  chops,  stood  looking  at  the  nun. 

Her  conception  is  certainly  a  great  mystery,  he  said  at 
last,  and  until  we  learn  more  about  it  my  advice  to  you 
all  is  to  keep  this  secret  from  everybody.  But,  said 
Mother  Abbess,  what  do  you  mean,  Father  Moling,  when 
you  say  till  we  know  more  about  it?  Well,  this  is  what  I 
mean,  said  he,  that  the  boy  himself  will  be  proof  enough 
of  his  miraculous  birth  when  he  grows  up.  Let  us  hope  so. 
But  we  don't  know,  said  Mother  Abbess,  whether  it  will  be 
a  girl  or  a  boy.  A  boy,  a  boy,  cried  the  nuns,  clapping 
their  hands,  and  they  began  to  argue  that  it  could  not 
be  else  than  a  boy,  for  that  no  woman  had  ever  borne  a 
girl  miraculously.  Oh,  said  the  priest,  I'm  afraid  we're 
travelling  on  a  road  that  will  carry  us  into  a  fine  heresy; 
but  after  thinking  a  while  he  saw  he  was  mistaken,  for 
St  Anne  herself  wasn't  conceived  miraculously,  only  with- 
out sin.  There  will  be  a  child  for  sure,  but,  as  I've  told  you 
already,  until  we  learn  more  about  it,  I'd  be  advising  you 
to  speak  to  none  about  the  miracle  that  God  has  been 
pleased  to  work  for  us.     The  Mother  Abbess  was  of  the 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      195 

priest's  way  of  thinking,  and  having  gotten  a  promise  from 
them  all  in  the  name  of  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph,  the  priest 
said  to  himself :  well,  God  knows  how  all  this  will  turn  out, 
and  we  must  leave  it  to  him. 

At  times  he  was  tempted  to  hope  that  she  might  die, 
for  only  her  death  and  the  death  of  his  child  could  stop 
the  scandal;  but  he  was  a  saint  as  well  as  a  sinner,  and 
every  time  the  thought  came  he  shook  his  head,  for  he 
knew  it  was  the  devil  that  sent  it,  and  he  kept  the  holy 
water  going  about  him  all  the  time.  His  real  torment 
was  that,  thinking  over  the  reason  for  his  sin,  he  didn't 
know  if  he  was  guilty  of  a  mortal  sin  or  venial  sin,  or  of 
no  sin  at  all.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he  often  said:  I'm  doing 
a  good  share  of  my  purgatory  on  the  earth,  and  these  were 
the  words  he  was  speaking  to  himself  the  day  the  Mother 
Abbess  came  in  to  him  with  the  joyful  tidings  that  Ligach 
had  been  delivered  of  a  fine  boy,  and  with  no  more  than 
two  hours'  trouble  before  he  came:  no  more  than  a  little 
uneasiness. 

Didn't  we  tell  you,  cried  the  nuns,  that  Ligach  would 
bear  a  boy  and  not  a  girl?  and  the  priest,  not  knowing 
what  to  say  to  all  this,  asked  if  the  child  was  a  weakling; 
and,  a  bit  surprised  that  he  should  ask  that,  the  Mother 
Abbess  answered :  there's  nothing  weak  about  him  barring 
that  he  has  a  strong  weakness  for  the  breast,  even  if  it  was 
a  virgin  bore  him  into  the  world.  Is  a  virgin's  child 
different?  he  asked,  not  knowing  very  much  what  he  was 
saying,  and  the  two  of  them  fell  to  talking  of  the  christen- 
ing, which  was  to  be  at  the  end  of  the  week,  the  priest 
thinking  his  mind  would  be  easier  when  it  was  over.  But 
from  this  hour  out  he  never  got  any  easy  minute,  and  he 
put  in  a  week  before  the  christening  thinking  of  his 
sermon,  which  would  all  be  about  miracles  and  mysteries. 
Said  he:  I  mustn't  say  a  word  against  one  or  t'other,  for 
the  sisters  are  right  in  this  that  to  say  her  case  was  not 
miraculous  is  much  the  same  as  taking  away  her  character 


196      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

and  she  a  nun  enclosed  in  the  Convent  of  Cuthmore.  And 
he  began  to  think  of  the  men  they'd  suspect  if  the  miracle 
were  denied,  but  he  could  think  only  of  the  gardener  and 
the  gardener's  boy.     No  one,  he  muttered,  would  believe 

that  Ligach The  nuns  won't  be  cheated  out  of  their 

miracle,  and  the  best  I  can  do  is  to  persuade  them  to  let 
the  child  be  put  out  to  nurse.  We  can  say  it  was  found 
by  the  convent  door;  left  there  by  someone  that  didn't 
want  it.  A  moment  after,  he  remembered  a  woman  down 
the  road  who  had  lost  her  child:  she  would  be  glad  to 

rear  it  for  us,  if  Ligach But  will  she  consent  to  be 

separated  from  her  child?  And  the  nuns  give  in  to  part 
with  it?  Not  a  chance  of  it,  poor  childless  women,  and 
they  are  looking  forward  to  this  child,  and  not  one  of 
them  but  is  already  a  mother  in  her  heart;  the  most  I'll 
be  able  to  do  will  be  to  get  them  to  promise  to  keep  the 
secret  of  Ligach's  miraculous  conception  to  themselves  till 
the  boy  begins  to  show  what  sort  of  a  man  he'll  be  stretch- 
ing into;  and  mind  you,  he  kept  on  telling  them,  for 
though  the  way  she  got  him  is  a  miracle  we  don't  know 
for  sure  and  certain  who  he  was  got  by.  But,  Father, 
would  you  have  us  think  that  Satan  had  a  finger  in  it? 
cried  the  Mother  Abbess,  and  the  nuns  dropped  their 
hands  and  eyes.  I'm  the  last  man  in  the  world  who'd  be 
putting  a  sore  thought  into  your  minds,  said  Moling.  I'm 
all  for  taking  things  easy,  saying  nothing  about  the  miracle 
and  letting  him  grow  up  naturally  without  any  cramming 
up  of  Latin  and  Greek.  But,  Father,  he  must  get  the 
education. 

The  priest  heaved  a  big  sigh,  for  he  knew  well  there 
was  to  be  no  rest  for  him  on  this  earth,  and  hardly  was 
the  boy  four  years  of  age  before  he  could  read  his  native 
Irish  tongue,  and  when  he  was  seven  or  eight  he  could 
con  the  Latin  and  Greek;  and  between  ten  and  eleven 
he  was  running  down  to  his  father's  house  taking  out  the 
books  into  the  garden,  reading  and  learning  and  refusing 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      197 

to  be  a  shepherd  or  a  carpenter  or  a  blacksmith.  Not  one 
of  the  decent  trades  that  Moling  offered  him  could  he  be 
got  to  take  up.  It  was  only  books  that  he  had  a  thought 
for,  and  it  was  great  delight  to  the  nuns  when  he  began 
to  read  the  scriptures  to  them,  and  he  only  fourteen  years 
of  age.  After  this  proof  of  his  learning  there  was  no 
holding  the  good  sisters,  and  nothing  the  priest  could  say 
could  stop  their  blabbing  tongues.  One  and  all  of  them 
went  about  telling  how  the  boy  had  given  out  the  scriptures 
to  them  in  the  Greek  and  the  Latin,  asking  if  that  wasn't 
sign  enough  that  a  great  prophet  he  would  be  in  time  to 
come:  one  who  would  hunt  the  heretics  out  of  Ireland? 
Prophet!  said  the  priest,  who  was  now  at  his  wits'  end  to 
quiet  them.  And  what  would  there  be  wonderful  in  that? 
said  the  Mother  Abbess.  Only  this,  said  the  priest,  if 
Ligach  conceived  miraculously  it  would  not  be  a  prophet 
that  she'd  bring  into  the  world  but  a  Messiah;  and  no 
sooner  were  the  words  out  of  him  than  he  saw  he  had 
made  a  mistake,  for,  as  Mother  Abbess  put  it  to  him  and 
to  the  nuns,  by  means  of  the  Holy  Ghost  God  begot  a  son 
that  was  neither  greater  nor  lesser  than  himself,  and  full 
equal  to  the  Ghost.  But  we're  not  asked,  said  she,  to  give 
in  that  the  Son,  with  or  without  the  help  of  the  Ghost,  can 
beget  himself  a  son?  Sure,  being  God,  the  priest  answered, 
he  could  do  anything.  That  is  so,  said  the  nun,  but  this 
is  the  vexation:  have  we  got  to  believe  that  our  little 
Martin  is  God's  grandson?  If  we  believe  him  to  be  a 
grandson  aren't  we  upsetting  the  Trinity,  a  thing  that  no 
person  here  would  have  hand  or  part  in.  Bothered  and 
badgered  we  are,  thinking  out  the  same  question,  and  I'd 
like  to  know  if  the  doctrine,  as  I'm  giving  it  to  you,  will 
hold  good  at  the  Court  of  Rome. 

Well,  now,  said  the  priest,  I'll  think  that  over,  for  it's 
a  tough  point  indeed,  and  one  that  won't  be  untied  in 
a  month  of  days  with  the  parishioners  dropping  in  to  say 
nothing  of  yourselves  banging  away  at  my  door  on  one 


198      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

business  or  another.  A  knotty  point  which  a  man  must 
give  the  whole  of  his  head  to.  And  where,  would  you  tell 
me,  can  a  man  give  his  mind  to  a  deep  matter  like  the 
Trinity,  unless  it's  in  the  wilderness  that  I  came  out  of 
years  ago,  and  where  I  am  going  back  to  think  the  whole 
thing  out?  If  I  make  any  head  on  it  I'll  come  back  with 
the  news.  But  the  nuns  were  very  fond  of  Father  Moling, 
and  at  that  they  started  in  to  weep  and  wail  and  cry 
aloud,  a  fair  keening  it  was;  all  ochon  ee  6  go  deo,  and 
woeful  is  the  day,  very  distressful  to  the  priest,  who,  to 
quiet  them,  reminded  them  of  the  forty  days  Jesus  spent 
in  the  desert.  We'll  pray  that  God  will  not  keep  you 
waiting,  cried  the  nuns.  And  I'll  make  a  prayer  too,  he 
said,  that  will  be  the  dead  image  of  the  one  you're  making, 
and  now  my  blessing  be  upon  you  all,  and  on  our  little 
Martin,  whom  I  give  into  your  charge,  and  if  you  don't 

see  my  face  again We  will,  we  will,  they  all  cried, 

for  be  the  word,  and  the  Mother  Abbess  took  a  grip  and 
a  swing  out  of  his  cassock,  but  he  hauled  it  off  her  with 
a  rip  in  it  maybe,  and  their  eyes  rested  on  him  for  the 
last  time  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  edge  of  the 
wood  with  his  bundle  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  waving  a 
farewell  sign  to  them. 

May  God  speed  him,  cried  the  Mother  Abbess,  on  his 
way,  and  help  him  to  untie  the  knot,  for  it's  a  knot  of 
the  knots,  and  I'm  dead  sure  that  he  is  too  old  to  stand 
the  hardships  of  the  wilderness,  with  them  joints  and 
them  bones.  May  God  send  him  back  safe  to  us,  said 
another    nun.     I'm    thinking    now,    said    the    Mother 

Abbess and  the  nuns  cried  out  to  know  what  she 

was  thinking.  What  will  we  be  doing  ourselves  without 
a  priest  and  he  gone?  Without  confessions,  without 
Mass  we  will  be  lost  entirely.  True  for  you,  said  a 
nun,  and  the  others  added:  we  never  thought  of  that, 
Mother.  We'll  have  to  write  to  the  Bishop,  and  tell  him 
of  the  loss  of  our  pastor,  who  has  gone  into  the  wilder- 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      199 

ness  to  think  out  a  hard  bit  of  doctrine,  one  so  knotty, 
said  the  Mother  Abbess  in  her  letter,  that  he  may  be 
away  for  long  enough.  So  we  should  be  glad  of  a 
temporary  priest  if  it  would  be  convenient  to  your 
lordship  to  send  us  one. 


CHAPTER  30. 

THE  man  that  goes  into  the  wilderness  in  his  youth 
returns  to  it  in  his  old  age,  and  I  doubt  if  they'll  ever 
see  him  again,  the  Bishop  remarked,  as  he  passed  the  letter 
on  to  his  clerk.  A  man  of  seventy-five  hasn't  got  it  in 
him  to  spend  his  nights  on  the  hill-side  in  draughty 
huts.  But  no  more  than  that  did  he  think  about  it, 
except,  of  course,  to  send  them  a  priest,  and  when  the 
priest  came,  Manchin  was  his  name,  the  first  talk  was 
about  the  disappearance  of  Moling  into  the  wilderness, 
and  the  great  and  holy  man  that  he  was.  The  last 
words  his  lordship  spake  to  me,  said  he  to  the  nuns, 
were:  the  wilderness  is  no  place  for  a  man  of  his  age,  and 
all  the  nuns  cried  out  that  they  thought  the  same.  But 
there  was  no  holding  Moling  with  them  for  the  knot  he 

had  to  untie What  knot?  said  Manchin.     And  bit  by 

bit  the  story  came  out,  the  priest's  face  getting  more  and 
more  troubled  and  queer-looking,  till  at  last  the  Mother 
Abbess  cried  out:  I  can  see  by  your  Reverence's  eye  that 
you'll  have  none  of  the  miracle,  and  that  you  think  our 
little  Martin  is  somebody's  leavings.  I  wouldn't  be  say- 
ing that,  said  the  priest,  and  he  had  a  long  talk  with 
Ligach,  who  gave  him  the  story  as  well  as  she  could  for 
the  water  in  her  eyes,  and  she  guessing  that  the  priest 
didn't  swallow  much  of  her  story;  and  afterwards  he 
wrote  to  the  Bishop  saying  that  a  great  heresy  might 
arise  out  of  this  story  that  was  going  the  round,  and 


200      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

a  great  many  souls  be  lost  in  it.  The  Bishop  was 
fairly  put  out  by  the  news,  and  wrote  to  his  brother 
bishops,  and  seven  or  eight  of  them  came,  and  they 
went  at  it. 

The  news  had  travelled  far  and  wide;  pilgrims  were 
coming  all  the  time,  the  whole  country  was  talking  of 
the  miracle,  and  nothing  else.  As  the  Bishops  didn't 
want  to  disappoint  the  people  there  is  no  knowing  what 
mightn't  have  happened  if,  just  as  the  Bishops  were  leav- 
ing, their  mitres  on  their  heads  and  their  crosiers  in  their 
hands,  three  long-bearded  old  men  hadn't  come  down  out 
of  the  wilderness  and  began  talking.  The  story  they  had 
come  to  tell  was  that  Father  Moling  was  doing  penance  for 
the  great  sin  he  had  fallen  into  in  the  years  back  with  a 
nun  of  the  name  of  Ligach,  whom  he  had  deceived  and 
had  a  child  by.  Enough,  enough,  cried  the  bishops ;  it  was 
God  sent  you,  lest  a  great  heresy  should  eat  the  Church 
the  way  a  wolf  eats  a  lamb.  And  the  nuns  and  the 
bishops  and  all  the  country  went  after  the  Archbishop 
into  the  church,  which  was  fuller  that  day  than  it  ever 
was  before  or  since. 

Well  this  is  the  way  it  was:  the  Archbishop  began  to 
tell  them  out  of  the  pulpit  that  it  must  have  been  God 
sent  the  three  hermits  with  the  news  of  Moling's  sin,  and 
that  they  didn't  come  a  bit  too  soon  either,  for  they,  the 
bishops,  were  about  to  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job  without 
coming  to  any  judgment,  none  of  them  liking  to  say  a 
word  for  or  a  thing  against  the  story  of  such  an  out-of- 
the-way  miracle  as  a  miraculous  conception,  though 
there  wasn't  a  man  jack  of  them  but  agreed  that  such  a 
thing  was  less  likely  than  one  of  the  little  miracles  the 
Church  is  always  willing  to  accept,  such  as  the  curing 
of  palsy  with  a  touch,  the  giving  back  of  sight  and  hearing 
with  a  spit,  the  setting  of  one  that  has  not  been  able  to  go 
about  without  crutches  for  years  on  his  feet  again;  for  not 
like  any  of  these  little  miracles  are  the  greater  miracles, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      201 

such  as  the  lifting  of  a  dead  man  alive  out  of  his  tomb,  or 
a  woman  that  has  never  known  a  man  bearing  a  child; 
these  great  miracles  were  done  once  in  the  Eastern  world 
for  the  saving  of  the  world.  So  it  isn't  likely  that  God 
would  let  his  greater  miracles  happen  again:  for  if  a 
woman  bore  a  child  all  by  herself,  or  if  a  corpse  lifted  him- 
self out  of  the  tomb  alive,  the  great  truth  of  the  Church 
would  not  be  the  plain  pikestaff  that  it  is  to  everyone  that 
cares  to  open  one  of  his  two  eyes.  You  may  be  sure  and 
certain,  my  brethren,  you  may  give  in  to  it  once  for  all, 
that  no  woman  will  get  a  child  that  way  again,  and  who- 
soever says  she  has  done  it  is  just  trying  to  disturb  people 
in  their  faith.  It  is  with  sorrow  that  I  give  it  out,  but 
Father  Moling  was  guilty  of  the  crime;  but  let  it  be  re- 
membered always  that  he  was  punished  for  his  sin  year 
in  year  out,  day  after  day,  minute  by  minute,  expecting 
all  the  time,  and  sure  and  certain  of  it,  that  something 
would  happen  to  drag  the  secret  out  of  him,  till  at  last  he 
could  bear  the  torment  no  longer  and  took  himself  off  to 
the  wilderness  to  pray  for  forgiveness. 

The  people  were  reminded  by  the  Bishop  that  God  had 
forgiven  Moling,  and  that  they  were  bound  to  believe 
this,  for  Moling  had  confessed  his  sin  and  sent  three  holy 
men  with  tidings  of  his  confession  to  them,  the  only  thing 
he  could  do  to  make  up  for  his  sin.  The  three  holy  men 
will  tell  you  of  Moling's  repentance  as  they  hearditfrom  the 
lips  of  Father  Moling  himself.  They  will  stand  up.  Upstand 
the  hermits,  said  he,  but  not  a  hermit  of  the  hermits  moved, 
and  as  nobody  stirred  the  people  began  looking  here  and 
there  for  the  men,  but  they  were  not  in  the  chapel,  and  so 
the  Bishop  sent  out  to  see  if  they  were  in  the  yard.  But 
they  were  not  in  the  yard  either,  and  all  the  news  that  they 
could  get  about  them  was  from  a  shepherd  who  had  seen 
them  sloping  away  with  themselves  into  the  wood;  think- 
ing, the  Bishop  said,  their  mission  was  finished.  Which  it 
was  indeed.    All  that  was  wanted,  he  went  on,  was  proof 


202      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

that  no  miraculous  conception  had  fallen  out  in  this  parish, 
and  they  had  that.  I  would  have  liked  you  all  to  hear  the 
story  again  from  their  lips,  but  it  isn't  the  will  of  God  that 
you  should:  for  these  holy  men  have  gone  back  to  the 
wilderness  they  came  out  of. 

The  Bishop  was  a  great  hand  at  a  sermon  and  he  said 
much  more  than  I'm  telling  your  honour,  and  would 
have  said  more  than  he  did  if  a  commotion  had  not 
begun  in  the  chapel,  Ligach  suddenly  falling  faint  or 
dead,  it  wasn't  certain  at  first;  so  white  and  still  was 
she,  that  many  began  saying  that  the  news  that  her  son 
was  a  by-blow  had  finished  her.  Water  was  sprinkled 
onto  her  face,  and  she  was  well  rubbed;  they  got  a 
drop  of  whisky  between  her  teeth,  and  as  soon  as  she 
opened  her  eyes  the  Bishop  began  to  take  pity  on  her, 
and  he  told  the  people  that  she  wasn't  a  bit  to  blame 
nor  a  scrap  in  the  wrong.  She  had  been,  he  said,  a 
victim,  and  next  door  to  a  martyr,  but  a  victim  she  was, 
one  of  Satan's  many  victims,  for  the  devil  never  flinched 
from  doing  a  big  wrong  if  he  could  only  get  his  own 
way,  which,  in  this  case,  was  the  soul  of  a  man  who, 
until  he  gave  in  to  temptation,  had  been  a  good  man 
and  a  very  good  man;  one  who  had  left  the  wilderness 
because  the  health  failed  on  him,  who  had  sinned,  but 
we  must  not  judge  a  man  by  a  single  case,  but  by  his 
whole  life;  Moling  had  sinned,  not  a  doubt  of  that,  but 
he  had  gone  back  to  the  wilderness  to  repent,  he  had 
not  hummed  nor  hawed  about  it,  old  man  though  he 
was,  and  the  Bishop  churned  on  till  Ligach  had  another 
faint. 

This  time  her  son  carried  her  to  the  door  of  the 
Church,  putting  back  all  the  people  who  would  help 
him,  saying  to  them :  let  none  lay  a  finger  on  my  mother, 
I  am  here  to  care  for  her  and  to  stick  by  her.  At  the 
chapel  door  he  kissed  her  and  at  that  she  opened  her 
eyes,  and  they  put  words  in  his  mouth,  and  leading  her 


A  STORY-TELLERS  HOLIDAY      203 

back  till  they  were  on  the  threshold,  he  stood  up  to 
the  Bishop  in  the  pulpit,  asking  his  lordship  was  a  story 
told  by  three  hermits  to  be  believed  rather  than  the 
story  that  the  nuns  of  Cuthmore  had  known  to  be  true 
for  the  last  fourteen  years.  If  the  hermits  had  the  rights 
of  it  why  have  they  disappeared  like  evil  spirits?  he 
asked,  and  the  people  thought  well  of  that,  and  the 
priests  were  frightened.  Let  the  Bishop  call  the  her- 
mits back.  At  that  the  Bishop  interrupted  Martin, 
and  said  that  he  didn't  know  a  thing  about  these  hermits. 
Then  why,  asked  Martin,  do  you  believe  them  before 
the  words  of  every  sister  in  this  convent?  Women  my 
mother  lived  with  from  her  young  youth,  always  known 
to  them  to  be  as  pious  as  any  nun  of  the  nuns,  often 
going  stricter  than  the  rule  of  the  convent  in  her  wish 
to  please  God,  putting  her  life  in  the  danger  too.  My 
mother's  life  is  well  known,  so  it  is,  and  you  said  yourself, 
my  lord,  that  a  man's  life  ought  not  to  be  judged  by  a 
single  deed.  Why  then  should  the  whole  of  my  mother's 
life  be  struck  out  as  nothing?  No  one  accused  your  mother 
of  sin:  we  hold  her  to  be  blameless,  cried  the  Bishop 
from  the  pulpit.  And  by  that  you  hold  her  to  be  a  silly 
woman  who  believed  a  living  man  got  up  on  the  cross 
and  let  on  to  be  God  himself.  My  mother  has  never 
been  known  as  an  omadhaun,  and  if  it  was  true  would 
not  the  hermits  have  stood  their  ground  here  and  had 
it  out  with  me?  If  they  went  off  with  themselves  it  is 
because  they  were  afraid  of  my  questions!  Let  them  be 
called  back  here  if  they  are  hermits  itself,  coming  here 
and  dropping  their  bad  egg  and  skedaddling  off  with 
themselves.  All  the  people  gave  in  to  the  rights  of 
that,  saying:  true  for  you,  my  boy,  more  power  to  the 
gossoon,  and  who  hid  the  hermits? 

The  mistake  Martin  made  was  speaking  of  the  hermits 
as  if  maybe  they  weren't  hermits  at  all;  for  that  gave  the 
Bishops  the  handle  they  wanted  and  they  called  on  the 


204      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

people  not  to  hear  another  word  from  the  man  who 
accused  the  clergy  of  calling  the  devil  to  give  a  hand, 
which  was  the  way  the  clergy  got  the  people  over  to 
their  side,  and  seeing  that  he  and  his  mother  hadn't  a 
defender  in  the  world,  Martin  said:  I'll  go  on  the  track 
of  the  hermits  and  I'll  bring  Father  Moling  back  with 
me  too,  and  he'll  tell  you  that  the  three  hermits  told  a 
he.  So  off  he  went  with  himself  into  the  wilderness, 
and  if  I  were  to  begin  to  tell  your  honour  of  the 
adventures  he  met  and  the  queer  things  that  happened 
to  him  we'd  be  here  until  the  day  after  to-morrow 
morning;  for  Ireland  was  a  wild  place  in  the  days  gone 
by,  and  it  was  through  the  wildest  parts  he  had  to  be 
trotting  his  boots  in  search  of  the  hermits  and  Moling, 
looking  for  them  in  the  forests  and  glens,  along  the 
naked  seashores  and  from  lake  island  to  lake  island,  but 
sorra  sight  or  light  he  could  get  of  one  of  them,  for 
Ireland  is  too  big  a  place  for  one  man  to  go  visiting  the 
whole  of  it;  and  it  was  with  a  belly  full  of  disappoint- 
ment and  a  grown  man  that  he  came  again  to  Loch 
Conn,  the  only  place  in  the  wide  world  he  had  a  memory 
of.  His  heart  was  sick  and  sore,  I'm  telling  you,  as  he 
stood  in  the  place  you  stood  in  to-day,  your  honour,  and 
he  looking  on  a  few  ruined  walls.  Is  it,  says  he  to  the 
goatherd  that  was  passing  by  at  the  time,  is  it  that 
these  walls  are  all  that  are  left  of  the  convent  of 
Cuthmore?  There  was  a  convent  here  one  time,  I've 
heard  tell  of  it,  the  goatherd  answered;  but  the  nuns 
left  it  years  ago  because  a  nun  of  them  thought  she  had 
been  put  in  the  straw  by  the  Lord  himself,  but  it  turned 
out  to  be  by  a  robber  that  came  through  the  chapel 
while  she  was  praying  before  the  cross. 

The  woman  that  is  buried  here  was  my  mother,  said 
Martin  to  the  goatherd,  and  I  have  gone  Ireland  up  and 
down  and  back  and  forth  for  the  last  seven  years  of  my 
life,  through  forests  and  mountains,  trying  to  come  up 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      205 

with  the  hermits  that  brought  the  news  that  killed  her. 
Bad  and  real  bad  the  same  news  must  have  been,  said  the 
goatherd;  what  kind  of  news  was  it  at  all,  and  it  that 
deadly?  It  was  the  news  that  Moling,  who  was  the  priest 
in  the  convent  while  my  mother  was  carrying,  went  to  the 
hermits  in  the  wilderness  to  repent  his  sin,  and  confessed 
to  them  that  he  was  my  father,  and  they  came  along 
afterwards  and  told  the  Bishops.  It's  not  likely  at  all, 
said  the  goatherd,  for  who  ever  heard  in  the  world  of  a 
confession  being  told;  if  Moling  had  told  that  to  the 
hermits  they  couldn't  have  told  it  to  the  Bishops,  and  you 
can  take  it  from  me  that  if  the  nun  buried  under  this 
stone  was  your  mother  indeed,  then  your  father  was  a 
robber  that  done  a  climb  in  through  a  window  on  a  dark 
night  and  played  his  trick!  Not  a  bit  of  it,  said  Martin, 
and  a  great  argument  and  a  great  row  began  between  the 
pair  of  them,  and  how  it  would  have  turned  out  I  don't 
know,  only  that  the  goatherd  had  to  make  off  after  his 
goats. 

As  soon  as  he  got  the  one  hobbled  that  was  setting  the 
others  astray,  he  came  back  to  ask  Martin  who  the  this 
and  the  that  was  his  father,  if  it  was  neither  the  priest 
nor  the  robber,  and  they  must  have  talked  a  bit  before 
they  separated;  but  the  man  my  grandfather  had  the  story 
from,  and  who  got  it  from  his  father  before  him,  told  my 
grandfather  that  Martin  believed  his  soul  had  come  down 
from  a  star  and  went  into  Ligach's  body  while  she  was 
at  her  prayers — it's  the  queer  thoughts  do  be  in  the  heads 
of  them  heretics.  Heretics,  Alec?  Heretic  he  was,  sir, 
surely,  though  I  wouldn't  be  saying  anything  about  the 
soul  coming  down  from  a  star,  for  can't  the  power  of  the 
devil  work  up  above  as  well  as  down  below?  But  he  told 
the  goatherd  that  his  mother's  name  was  under  his  own 
special  care,  and  that  everybody  would  believe  in  her 
virginity,  for  it  was  part  of  the  new  religion  he  was  going 
to  set  up,  with  himself  at  the  head  of  it. 


206      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

And  the  new  religion?  I  asked.  It  is  said  that  Martin 
went  off  to  Germany,  Alec  answered,  and  that  he  got 
married  there  to  an  escaped  nun,  for  you  couldn't  set  up  a 
new  religion  or  do  any  of  them  tricks  in  Ireland.  Are  you 
telling  me,  Alec,  that  he  married  Catherine  Bora?  That 
might  be  her  name  indeed,  for  the  religion  itself  was  no 
better  than  a  whore.  You  don't  mean  that  Ligach's  son 
was  Martin  Luther?  Faith,  I  wouldn't  be  saying  anything 
or  too  much,  and  we  standing  at  the  edge  of  her  grave,  still 
and  all  the  German  Martin  might  easy  have  been  one  of 
the  sons  of  our  Martin,  but  here's  the  grave  beside  us, 
and  you  have  the  story  as  well  as  I  can  give  it  to  you. 


CHAPTER  31. 

AN  excellent  tea  awaited  me  in  the  parlour,  cakes  of 
different  kinds  and  many  various  jams,  and  Alec  was 
speaking  in  praise  of  the  tea  he  had  been  served  with 
in  the  kitchen,  when  Mr.  Ruttledge's  car  came  to  fetch 
us.  Its  arrival  was  opportune,  for  another  ten  miles' 
walk,  and  five  of  it  through  a  gusty  bog,  was  more  than  I 
should  care  to  undertake  in  the  days  of  my  youth, 
and  now  I  looked  forward  to  leaning  back  among  comfort- 
able cushions,  and  following  in  imagination  the  young 
man  as  he  strove  through  the  uttermost  of  night,  hearing 
the  stars,  as  he  ascended  the  hill-sides,  telling  him  that 
his  mother's  womb  was  quickened  by  a  celestial  visitant 
— an  explanation  of  the  mystery  of  his  birth  which  he 
received  eagerly,  for  he  was  one  whose  mother's  virginity 
was  dearer  to  him  than  his  own  life;  one  who  would 
forgo  his  life  rather  than  possess  it  at  the  price  of  his 
mother's  maidenhood:  a  sentiment  commoner  than  we 
think  for,  for  who  amongst  us  is  there  that  has  not  looked 
at  his  father  with  hatred,  or  a  grudge,  in  his  heart? 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      207 

A  story,  I  said,  that  would  have  won  its  way  into  Pater's 
heart;  and  I  fell  to  thinking  how  he  would  have  written 
it,  beginning  perhaps: 

And  oh,  the  pity  of  it!  the  young  man  returning  to 
the  convent  of  Cuthmore  after  long  years  of  vain 
searching  for  Moling  and  the  three  hermits,  only  to 
find  her  grave — her  grave  and  his  birthplace  (the 
goatherd  had  told  him  that  Ligach  was  buried  in 
the  cell  in  which  she  had  lived  all  her  life)  and  to  stand 
by  it,  hopeful,  looking  on  himself  as  the  vindicator  of 
her  sad  cause,  his  life  devoted  to  that  end — a  long 
knight-errantry — and  on  the  religion  he  would  found 
as  the  warrant  he  needed  of  her  virginity  and  his  own 
Messiahship ! 

A  beautiful  story,  I  muttered  and,  catching  sight  at 
that  moment  of  Alec's  face,  out  of  which  all  expression 
had  vanished,  I  said:  when  he  is  not  telling  a  story  he 
is  as  common,  as  witless,  as  any  man  picked  out  of  the 
streets  of  Westport.  How  very  strange!  and  how  un- 
important! Not  himself  but  his  beautiful  story  is  worth 
considering — the  beautiful  story  whose  origin  we  must 
seek  further  back  than  the  Middle  Ages,  whose  counter- 
parts we  shall  find  certainly  amongst  the  rudiments  of 
the  world;  in  the  story  of  Bacchus,  who  visited  Semele's 
grave  before  he  set  forth  on  his  pilgrimage  to  found  a 
new  religion,  and  in  the  story  of  Hippolytus,  the  son 
of  Antiope,  the  Amazon  queen  who  fell  in  love  with 
Theseus,  King  of  Athens,  for  he  too  believed  his  mother 
to  have  been  a  virgin  who  was  impregnated  by  some  starry 
influence  as  she  lay  sleeping  in  a  mountain  cleft. 

Alec,  I  cried,  irritated  by  the  sight  of  his  impassive 
countenance,  your  story  revives  my  interest  in  the  Celtic 
Renaissance,  and  when  I  return  to  Dublin  the  first  person 
I  will  tell  it  to  will  be  dear  Edward;  it  will  strengthen 
his  belief  in  the  Renaissance.  Who  might  he  be?  said 
Alec. 


208      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


CHAPTER  32. 

ALEC  accompanied  me  to  the  wicket,  and  before  part- 
ing with  him  I  said  once  again :  I'm  sorry  I  shall  not 
see  you  all  next  week.  You've  told  me  some  wonderful 
stories,  and  without  doubt  are  the  great  shanachie  of 
Connaught.  Many's  the  one  that  has  said  the  same  to 
me,  your  honour,  but  if  they  were  right  itself,  it  isn't 
much  of  a  brag  to  be  above  those  going  up  for  the 
competitions  with  no  more  than  two  and  three  and  a  half 
a  story  between  the  lot  of  them;  and  the  fellow  stutter- 
ing and  stammering  them  out.  But,  compared  with  the 
shanachies  that  were  in  it  in  the  old  time,  your  honour, 
I'm  not  so  much  maybe. 

I  begged  him  to  believe  that  he  was  unjust  to  his  gifts 
and  inspirations,  and  suppressed  the  smile  that  I  felt 
to  be  at  hover  about  my  lips.  I've  never,  I  said,  heard 
better  stories  than  those  you  have  told  me,  or  a  more 
spirited  relation.  So  much  have  your  stories  pleased 
me  that  I  don't  know  how  the  time  will  pass  while  you 
are  away.  I'm  longing  to  hear  more  stories.  And  what 
shall  I  be  doing  while  you're  away?  It  would  be  a  great 
honour  to  me  to  hear  a  story  from  yourself,  your  honour, 
and  all  the  week  I'm  away  you  can  be  turning  it  over  in 
your  mind.  But  you  see,  Alec,  my  stories  are  intended 
to  be  read;  my  stories  are  eye  stories,  yours  are  ear 
stories,  and  at  an  ear  story  you  beat  me  easily.  I'm  far 
from  thinking  that,  your  honour,  but  whichever  of  us 
may  come  out  first,  I'd  like  to  hear  you  tell  a  story. 

Alec's  blue,  almost  forget-me-not,  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
me  and,  cowed  by  them,  I  promised  him  a  story.  But 
you  mustn't  expect  too  much  from  me,  I  called  down 
the  road,  for  already  I  had  begun  to  feel  that  I  should 
be  worsted  in  the  contest. 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  went  away,  laughing,  I  thought, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      209 

as  if  he  were  sure  I  could  match  his  stories.  But  as  I 
turned  in  the  wicket  it  seemed  to  me  that  Alec  had 
gone  away  laughing  at  the  thought  of  my  being  able 
to  match  his  grandfather's  stories.  Not  an  easy  task, 
I  said,  especially  the  Marban  story.  An  hour  remains 
between  now  and  dinner,  I  continued,  and  bethought 
myself  of  the  high  wood  as  a  likely  place  to  find  a  subject; 
and  turning  to  Jim,  I  said:  how  often  have  you  believed 
in  the  rabbit  and  been  disappointed?  It  may  be,  how- 
ever, your  luck  will  be  to  get  the  rabbit,  and  mine  to 
return  with  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  story.  You  can 
come  with  me;  we'll  go  hunting  together;  and  Jim,  lean 
and  eager  and  hopeful,  rushed  ahead,  leaving  me  to  follow 
after,  doubtful  and  already  a  little  despondent,  saying, 
to  myself:  to  match  his  stories  I  shall  need  a  very  striking 
subject. 

A  story  of  modern  life  wouldn't  impress  Alec.  He'd 
be  more  interested  in  a  wonder  tale — a  legend  of  fairy 
tale,  a  fairy  tale  being  better  than  a  legend.  But  is 
there  any  difference  between  fairy  tales  and  legends?  I 
asked,  and  wasted  some  time  considering  the  question 
from  a  literary  point  of  view,  awaking  from  my  reverie 
with  the  words:  a  wonder  tale,  on  my  lips.  A  wonder 
tale  it  must  be,  and  if  I  tell  him  an  astonishing  story  he'll 
speak  up  for  me  in  the  ale-houses:  no  shanachie  will  be 
put  in  front  of  me,  saving  himself,  of  course.  Something 
dramatic  will  impress  him  more  than  a  story  of  every- 
day life,  however  good  it  may  be.  A  murder  story!  and 
I  bethought  myself  of  a  woman  whom  a  verdict  of  not- 
proven  saved  from  the  gallows  and  imprisonment,  leaving 
her  free  to  pick  and  choose  a  husband  from  out  of  a  crowd 
of  supplicating  suitors;  and,  as  if  determined  to  close  all 
possible  avenues  of  further  romances,  she  chose  the 
dowdiest.  But  it  would  seem  that  romance  was  her  lot 
in  life,  for  after  twenty  years  of  virtuous  married  life  her 
husband  became  possessed  of  the  belief  that  she  was 


210      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

planning  how  she  might  rid  herself  of  him,  and  the  fact 
that  her  interest  was  to  keep  and  not  to  rid  herself  of 
him  did  not  help  him. 

Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  the  most  trivial  ac- 
cidents of  life  started  his  mind  on  the  trail  of  some 
fresh  suspicion,  till  at  last  he  was  driven  to  asking  his 
wife  to  go  away  whither  she  pleased  so  long  as  she  left 
the  county.  He  gave  her  the  choice  of  the  child  she 
would  take  with  her  (there  were  two),  and  it  was  not 
till  the  mother  and  child  reached  Chicago  that  her 
husband  drew  a  happy  breath.  A  striking  subject,  I  said 
to  myself,  but  one  more  suited  to  Nature's  handling  than 
to  mine,  for  it  is,  shall  we  say,  sufficient  in  itself.  An 
unliterary  subject — the  opposite  to  Esther  Waters — 
and  I  remembered  how  a  single  sentence  in  a  newspaper 
gave  me  the  subject  of  Esther  Waters.  We're  always  com- 
plaining of  the  annoyance  that  servants  occasion  us,  but 
do  we  ever  think  of  the  annoyance  we  occasion  servants? 
were  the  words  that  set  me  thinking  of  a  young  lady  in 
love  with  her  footman.  The  subject  was  rejected  as  un- 
worthy, and  a  moment  after  it  seemed  to  me  that  some- 
body anxious  to  learn  a  trade  was  the  character  that  en- 
ticed me.  A  kitchen-maid,  I  said.  A  kitchen-maid's  adven- 
ture is  an  illegitimate  child.  On  fourteen  pounds  a  year  she 
cannot  and  on  sixteen  pounds  she  can  rear  the  child. 
The  life  of  a  human  being  at  two  pounds  is  my  subject, 
and  before  I  reached  the  Law  Courts,  distant  about  two 
hundred  yards,  the  story  of  Esther  Waters  was  decided 
upon. 

The  story  of  The  Brook  Kerith  discovered  itself  as  quickly 
one  evening  in  the  National  Library.  John  Eglinton 
spoke  to  me  of  something  he  had  been  reading  in  which 
the  theory  that  Jesus  had  not  died  but  merely  swooned 
on  the  cross  was  put  forward,  and  the  dream  began 
instantly  that  if  he  did  not  die  on  the  cross  nothing 
was  more  likely  than  that  he  returned  to  the  Essenes 


A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      211 

and  met,  years  after,  Paul,  perad venture,  in  the  cavern 
above  the  brook. 

Accident  furnished  me  with  subjects  for  both  books,  but 
no  literary  accident  may  befall  me  in  this  lonely  wood. 
My  thoughts  are  wilful;  I  cannot  fix  them:  the  trees  are 
beautiful  and  lean  over  the  stream  with  noble  gesture. 
The  water  tumbles  from  boulder  to  boulder  merrily; 
without,  however,  mooting  a  story,  I  said.  Blackbirds 
and  thrushes  are  singing,  but  of  what  do  they  sing,  of 
themselves  or  of  nothing?  My  thoughts  fled  out  of  the 
high  wood,  crossed  the  seas,  and  in  a  second  I  was  in 
Medan  seeking  a  story  in  an  account  of  a  flood  that  we 
had  just  been  reading  in  a  newspaper.  A  whole  family 
was  drowned  in  it,  all  except  an  old  man  of  eighty.  Zola, 
impressed  by  Nature's  indifference,  wrote  the  story,  and 
I  wrote  it  too,  but  who  wrote  the  better  story  could 
not  be  decided,  Zola  not  knowing  English  (mine  was  in 
English)  and  I  not  caring  to  read  his  lest  I  should  find 
it  superior  to  mine. 

But  I'm  now  composing  a  story  in  competition  with 
Alec  Trusselby,  and  shall  not  find  one  if  my  thoughts  will 
not  come  to  heel. 

All  night  I  lay  awake;  and  all  the  next  day  I  spent  in 
the  high  wood,  seeking  a  subject,  my  thoughts  distracted 
constantly  in  the  wood  by  the  beauty  of  the  trees,  by 
the  birds  in  the  stream  and  in  the  branches;  and  when 
I  emerged  from  the  wood,  the  hills  set  me  thinking  that 
if  they  would  break  their  lofty  silence  they  could  tell 
me  the  tale  of  a  beleaguered  castle,  with  a  fair-haired 
woman  ascending  the  stairs,  built  between  the  walls.  It 
is  well  to  be  fair-haired  but  it  is  not  enough;  something 
must  happen  to  her.  She  must  be  carried  away  by  a  rival 
chieftain,  and  the  battle  must  be  waged  from  island  to 
island.  An  Irish  Helen  I  said,  and  began  to  curse  myself 
for  wasting  time  upon  tawdry  Walter  Scott  nonsense, 
as  poetical  as  a  story  about  a  burning  mill  and  no  jot 


212      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

more  so,  one  in  which  the  author  has  not  forgotten  to 
include  a  strong  love  interest. 

But  sneers  at  Fleet  Street  are  no  help,  and  at  the  end 
of  a  short  walk  the  story  of  a  burning  mill  was  dismissed 
as  unworthy.  The  story  I  need,  I  continued,  is  a  story  not 
less  perfect  than  those  Alec  told  me,  nor  less  complete, 
and  dropped  into  a  new  consideration  of  the  old  woman 
who  wouldn't  give  her  money  to  the  priest  to  rebuild  the 
walls  of  his  church,  her  need  being  a  stained  glass  window. 
The  word  "need"  reminded  me  of  my  own  great  need 
of  a  short  story  while  writing  The  Brook  Kerith — of 
a  short  tale  complete  in  itself,  relating  the  adventures 
of  Jesus  while  in  search  of  a  ram  of  a  particular  breed. 
The  same  fear  was  upon  me  then  as  now;  but  the 
needed  tale  was  vouchsafed  to  me  the  same  afternoon 
in  the  train  on  my  way  to  Epping.  But  will  the  needed 
tale  be  vouchsafed  to  me  again?  I  asked,  and  watched 
my  thoughts  scouting  at  adventure,  one  of  them  at 
last  espying  an  old  monk  who  had  just  finished  telling 
the  story  of  Lilith  on  the  balcony  overlooking  the  Brook 
Kerith.  A  Talmudic  tale,  I  said,  a  lilt,  such  as  a  reaper 
might  sing  while  reaping — a  folk-tale  told  over  the  fire- 
side, hardly  as  much.  She  is  mentioned  in  Faust. 
Faust  asks  Mephistopheles :  who  is  that  yonder?  and  he 
answers:  Lilith,  Adam's  first  wife.  Beware  of  her,  for 
she  excels  all  women  in  the  magic  of  her  locks.  If  a 
young  man  should  get  entangled  in  them  she  will  never 
set  him  free  again. 

Michelangelo  seems  to  have  painted  Lilith  as  an 
eternal  temptation;  Rossetti  translated  Michelangelo's 
design  into  verse,  but  neither  seems  to  have  perceived 
the  story  that  the  old  chronicler's  Hit  stands  for.  As 
likely  as  not  the  old  chronicler  didn't  guess  that  a 
great  story  lay  behind  his  brief  record.  The  meaning 
of  the  story  was  perchance  forgotten  when  he  wrote, 
and  his  summary  is  but  a  cocoon  left  over  to  be  un- 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      213 

wound  by  me.  And  the  more  I  considered  the  cocoon 
the  more  full  of  thread  it  seemed  to  me  to  be.  And 
all  the  next  day  and  all  the  day  after  were  spent  in 
the  high  wood  by  the  babbling  water,  unwinding, 
forgetful  of  Alec,  absorbed  in  the  story,  happy  in  the 
conviction  that  were  I  to  search  the  world  over  I  should 
never  find  a  woodland  more  like  the  Garden  of  Eden 
than  this  one. 

These  trees,  I  said,  sheltered  our  first  parents:  if  not 
these  trees  their  progenitors,  and  who  knows  that  Lilith 
and  Adam  may  not  have  drunken  from  this  stream?  If  not 
from  this  one,  from  one  like  it.  I  am  walking  in  Eden 
without  a  doubt  of  it;  the  only  difference  between  this 
wood  and  the  woods  of  Eden  is  that  there  must  have 
been  fruit  trees  in  Eden  and  there  is  none  here,  not 
even  a  nut  bush,  some  hips  and  haws  only.  But  it's  easy 
to  imagine  a  few  fruit  trees;  besides,  this  is  but  a  corner 
of  the  domain  that  God  gave  to  Adam  and  into  which 
Lilith  came  from  the  underworld.  The  story  is  coming, 
I  said,  the  story  is  coming,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week 
I  went  to  relate  it  to  Alec  in  the  woods  of  Hanaidi.  A 
pretty  adventure,  I  said,  on  my  way  thither,  and  I 
stopped  to  consider  the  style  in  which  I  was  to  tell 
it;  and  while  looking  round  admiring  the  far-away  air 
of  the  plaintive  little  country,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
every  language,  except  its  own,  the  beautiful  Anglo- 
Irish  idiom,  odorous  as  the  newly  upturned  clod  of 
earth,  would  be  inappropriate,  and  knowing  myself  to 
be  as  imitative  as  a  monkey,  I  asked  myself  if  I  should  be 
able  to  pipe  my  tune  in  it:  with  some  outbreaks  into 
Fleet  Street,  of  course,  I  said.  But  he'll  be  listening  to 
the  story  and  will  not  hear  the  outbreaks,  and  if  he 
does  hear  them  they  will  seem  to  him  the  very  thing  he 
should  admire,  alas! 

And  in  regretful  mood  I  continued  walking,  but  very 
slowly,  for  there  was  a  thought  at  the  back  of  my  mind  that 


214      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

hesitated  to  come  into  words.  At  last  I  asked  myself  if  it 
were  wise  to  translate  a  Hebrew  story  into  peasant  idiom. 
As  well  might  I  translate  Congreve's  Comedies  into  the 
same,  I  added,  a  little  further  on;  derisively,  of  course: 
and  the  passer-by  must  have  descried  an  expression  of 
perplexity  upon  my  face,  for  I  had  begun  to  think  that 
if  I  told  my  story  in  Anglo-Irish  all  the  characteristics  by 
which  Alec  knew  me  would  disappear,  and,  worst  of  all, 
he  might  think  I  was  putting  a  joke  on  him.  But  related 
in  London  idiom  my  story  will  be  like  music  played  on 
a  worn-out  piano.  Good  heavens !  I  said,  I  shall  make  no 
sort  of  a  match  in  this  competition,  and  might  have  run 
home  if  Alec,  who  was  before  me  by  the  great  stone, 
sacred  in  my  memory,  Liadin  and  Curithir  having  met 
there,  hadn't  at  that  moment  risen  to  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  33. 

IT  seemed  at  first  as  if  he  had  forgotten  my  promise  to 
relate  a  story,  and  I  honestly  hoped  that  we  might  go 
fern-gathering  instead.  But  at  last  the  words  came: 
have  you  brought  the  story  with  you,  your  honour?  Yes, 
I  answered;  I've  a  story  to  tell  you,  and  it's  of  Adam's 
first  wife.  But  Adam's  first  wife  was  Eve,  he  rapped  out, 
and  more  energetically  than  I  had  expected;  and  to  quiet 
him  I  said  that  many  stories  related  to  the  famous  garden, 
and  that  the  one  I  was  going  to  tell  was  from  the  Talmud. 
The  name  at  once  quelled  any  rebellious  spirit  that  may 
have  been  in  him,  and  he  allowed  me  to  inform  him  that 
there  are  two  sacred  books  of  the  Hebrew  law,  one  known 
as  the  Bible,  an  inspired  work,  and  another  work,  which  is 
the  Talmud,  uninspired  and  four  times  as  large  as  the 
Bible.  And  from  the  Talmud,  Alec,  we  learn  that  Adam 
had  a  first  wife,  and  there  is  a  broken  relation  which  I 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      215 

have  pieced  together,  the  right  of  every  shanachie,  as  you 
know  well.  Who  should  know  better  than  yourself  how 
stories  are  spun  and  woven,  you  the  great  shanachie  of 
Connaught?  The  stories  you  tell  me  you  learnt  from  your 
grandfather:  he  read  them  in  books,  but  added  to  them, 
and  you  developed  them  just  as  the  Hungarian  gipsy 
develops  on  his  fiddle  the  snatches  of  song  that  he  hears 
the  reapers  singing  in  the  cornfields.  I  think  I  under- 
stand, sir,  Alec  said,  and  without  leaving  him  time  for 
reflection  out  of  which  might  spring  thoughts  of  his  parish 
priest,  who  had  never  heard  of  Lilith,  I  began : 

A  great  temptress  she  was,  greater  than  our  neighbour's 
wife,  greater  than  the  scarlet  woman,  and  the  daughters 
of  Baal  of  whom  you  have  no  doubt  heard  in  church. 
Sorra  one  of  any  of  them  names  have  I  heard  of,  your 
honour.  But  all  the  same  I'd  like  to  hear  the  story  of 
Adam's  first  wife,  no  matter  the  book  she  comes  out 
of.  A  great  trouble,  I  said  gloomily,  she  always  was  to 
Adam,  leaving  him  often  without  ever  saying  when  she 
was  going  to  return,  going  away  like  a  bird,  still  better 
as  a  wreath  of  mist  which  melts  in  the  morning  sun,  and 
returns  when  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  mountains.  And 
once  she  was  gone  there  was  silence,  nobody  to  bid  him 
the  hour  of  the  day  or  to  say:  here's  a  fine  fig  here,  or 
would  you  like  a  rosy  peach  better?  Nor  anyone  to  say: 
I'm  as  dry  as  a  limekiln,  and  could  drink  a  jug  of  water 
at  a  draught,  if  you'd  go  to  the  river  for  me.  His  life  lay 
like  a  lump  of  lead  upon  him,  and  his  legs  got  too  shaky 
to  bear  his  body;  he  would  come  tottering  down  the  path, 
his  knees  knocking  together,  not  knowing  how  to  bear 
with  his  grief,  for  Lilith  had  gone  once  more  from  him, 
and  as  was  usual  with  her,  without  saying  whither  she  was 
going  or  when  she  was  coming  back.  She  has  gone,  he 
said  to  himself,  and  henceforth  the  memory  of  her  will 
be  burning  in  me  always;  and  he  walked  back  and  forth, 
unable  to  comprehend  how  he  could  go  on  living  day  after 


216      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

day  in  this  garden,  which  already  had  begun  to  lose  its 
beauty  in  his  eyes,  never  seeing  or  hearing  of  her  again. 

He  could  no  longer  wander  through  the  garden  taking 
pleasure  in  the  graceful  trees,  the  shady  dells  and  sunny 
glades,  for  every  spot  was  associated  with  her.  The 
flowering  bank  beneath  the  fig-tree  reminded  him  of 
many  sweet  midnight  visitations,  and  he  thought  that  the 
moss  still  retained  the  impress  of  her  head.  A  great  big 
sigh  escaped  him,  and  he  turned  away  from  the  beauti- 
fulest  parts  of  the  river,  for  since  her  departure  the  river 
was  running  very  shallow  indeed  between  long  gravel 
reaches,  and  he  wearied  of  the  pair  of  ousels  that  flitted 
from  boulder  to  boulder:  they  are  faithful  to  each  other, 
why  did  she  abandon  me?  he  said,  and  fell  to  thinking, 
asking  himself  if  Lilith  came  to  him  from  Lucifer's  domain 
by  Iahveh's  order  or  if  she  were  sent  by  Lucifer  to  tempt 
him  from  his  allegiance.  None  can  answer  these  questions 
but  Iahveh  himself,  he  said,  and  he  turned  into  the  twist- 
ing path  that  led  up  the  hill-side  to  the  praying  stone  that 
he  had  raised  there.  Iahveh,  Alec,  was  the  first  Hebrew 
God,  and  I  don't  think  I'm  going  too  far  if  I  say  a  sort 
of  tribal  God. 

Adam  threw  himself  on  the  ground,  and  bowed  himself 
three  times:  my  God,  hearken  to  me,  for  I  come  to  thee 
in  great  distress  of  mind  and  body,  not  having  seen  the 
golden-haired  Lilith  for  many  days,  and  without  her  the 
garden  in  which  thou  hast  placed  me  has  become  a 
wilderness  in  my  eyes;  bid  her  return  to  me,  else  I 
perish.  My  God,  my  God,  hear  thy  servant  Adam,  for 
he  calls  to  thee  to  save  him  from  his  wretched  plight. 
My  God,  my  God,  hearken  to  thy  servant,  again  Adam 
cried  out,  but  he  had  to  cry  many  times  before  he  could 
rouse  Iahveh,  who  was  dreaming  in  his  golden  chair  of 
the  last  stubborn  fight  before  the  archangels  were  able  to 
shut  Lucifer  up  in  hell. 

At  length  Adam's  prayers  awakened  him,  and  a  mutter- 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      217 

ing  began  in  his  great  beard.  Adam  calls  me,  Iahveh  said, 
and  having  gained  his  ear,  Adam  rose  to  his  feet  and  spoke 
outright,  telling  Iahveh  that  Lilith  had  left  him  without 
saying  she  would  return,  as  she  had  done  many  times;  but 
now  I  know,  Lord,  that  she  will  never  return  to  me  again, 
unless  thou  commandest  her  to  do  so.  Left  thee  for  ever? 
Iahveh  replied,  and  there  was  some  tone  of  astonishment 
in  his  voice  that  perplexed  Adam.  Lilith!  Iahveh 
repeated,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  her,  and  when  he  in- 
quired of  Adam  Lilith's  reason  for  leaving,  Adam  related 
the  story:  that  Lilith  left  him  because  he  prayed  morn- 
ing and  evening  at  the  praying  stone  and  inquired  all 
things  of  God.  Thereat  God  was  moved  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  thoughts  towards  his  servant  Adam,  and  raised 
up  by  God's  praise  Adam  continued  his  doleful  recitations, 
saying  that  Lilith  never  avouched  whether  her  visits  were 
within  God's  knowledge  or  outside  of  it,  in  a  measure 
embittering  the  pleasure  that  I  took  from  her;  for,  Lord, 
I  would  obey  thee  in  all  things,  and  have  now  come  to 
ask  if  Lilith,  by  thy  good  will,  may  return  to  me.  But 
if  it  be  not  thy  will  I  will  try  to  bear  my  life  of  loneliness 
in  resignation,  repenting  all  my  days  of  the  great  sin  I 
was  guilty  of  towards  thee  in  heaven  long  ago.  Lilith, 
Iahveh  answered,  for  now  he  remembered  her,  was  one 
of  the  angels  like  thyself,  Adam,  who  neither  took  sides 
for  nor  against  me.  All  these  have  been  condemned  to 
wander  on  a  gloomy  border-land.  All  but  thou.  I  have 
placed  thee  in  a  beautiful  garden,  thy  transgression  being 
lighter  than  theirs.     Iahveh  is  a  just  God. 

But,  Lord,  is  it  by  thy  will  that  Lilith  comes  forth  from 
gloomy  glens  and  sterile  clefts  to  visit  me  in  the  garden? 
Neither  for  nor  against  my  will,  but  Iahveh  is  well 
pleased  with  his  servant  Adam  for  not  having  listened 
to  the  coaxing  voice  of  the  temptress  who  would  have 
beguiled  him  from  his  lord  God.  My  lord,  if  I  have 
earned  thy  praise,  reward  thy  servant  with  Lilith,  and  be 


218      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

sure  that  although  I  shall  take  pleasure  in  her  golden 
hair  I  shall  not  cease  to  offer  prayers  to  thee  morning  and 
evening  by  the  praying  stone  that  I  have  raised  to  thy 

honour.  Offering  will  I  bring My  servant,  Adam,  I  am 

well  pleased  with  thee,  Iahveh  answered.  Return  to  the 
shadowy  peacefulness  of  thy  garden  and  leave  me  to  con- 
sider how  Lilith  may  best  be  persuaded  to  return  to  thee. 

The  silence  of  the  sunny  mount  was  not  broken  again. 
Adam  prayed,  inly  thanking  God  for  his  great  mercies,  a 
great  sigh,  however,  escaping  from  him  as  he  lay  upon  the 
ground,  lifting  his  head  from  it  from  time  to  time,  bowing 
and  rejoicing  to  himself  that  his  humility  should  have  won 
from  God  a  promise  to  use  his  power  to  persuade  Lilith 
to  return  to  Eden  for  Iahveh  couldn't  compel  Lilith,  she 
having  passed  beyond  his  power  into  that  of  Lucifer. 
But  Adam  did  not  doubt  that  Iahveh  would  be  able  to 
persuade  her.  It  may  be  that  if  she  refuses  he  will 
thrust  her  out  of  the  border-land  into  hell;  and  he 
found  great  pleasure  in  his  thoughts,  for  at  the  back 
of  his  mind  was  the  certainty  that  very  soon  Lilith  would 
be  given  back  to  him,  whether  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  or  when  he  dozed  on  the  sunny  bank  he  did  not 
know,  and  it  mattered  little  when,  so  long  as  she  was 
returned  to  him. 

As  he  descended  the  twisting  path  to  the  dell  he 
remembered  a  corner  by  the  river's  brink  in  which 
he  could  dream  of  Lilith  more  intently  than  elsewhere, 
under  the  spotted  branches  of  some  plane-trees  that  were, 
however,  still  full  of  leaves.  The  river  swirled  by 
almost  silent,  and  the  willow  weed  wilted,  its  life  having 
been  lived;  only  a  few  faded  and  torn  blooms  still  cling- 
ing to  the  stalks.  But  Adam  had  seen  the  flowers 
return :  the  word  return  had  a  significant  beauty  for  him : 
Lilith  was  about  to  return,  he  said,  and  he  watched  the 
water  ousels  fly  up  and  down  the  stream,  alighting  on  the 
boulders    with    the    same    eagerness    as    when    he    had 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      219 

watched  them  while  waiting  for  Lilith  to  appear  to  him. 
The  sky,  too,  entranced  him,  for  when  he  raised  his 
head  he  could  see  between  the  mottled  branches  white 
clouds  unfolding.  A  squirrel  cracked  a  nut  in  the 
branches  above  him,  the  shells  fell  at  his  feet  and  he 
said:  the  season  of  the  nuts  has  come;  Lilith  and  I 
will  share  them  together,  and  he  remembered  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  garden  where  the  different  nuts  grew  large 
and  rich.  Nuts  and  fruit  we  shall  have  in  plenty  this  year, 
he  continued,  and  suddenly  his  thoughts  broke  away  and 
he  began  to  ask  himself  what  Iahveh's  designs  might  be. 
He  will  send  forth  angels  to  seek  her  if  she  be  on 
earth,  but  if  she  have  returned  to  Lucifer  God  cannot  enter 
the  portals  of  the  world  below  and  say  that  she  must  be 
given  up.  We  shall  have  to  wait,  and  ages  will  pass  by. 
His  heart  failed  him  a  little,  but  revived  soon  after,  for 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear  the  sound  of  wings 
in  the  air.  He  is  sending  his  angels.  Doubtless  Michael, 
Gabriel  and  Raphael  have  been  chosen  for  they  are  the 
swiftest  of  God's  messengers. 


CHAPTER  34. 

THE  sound  I  hear  is  not  the  sound  of  wild  geese  speed- 
ing northward,  he  said,  and  his  ears  had  not  deceived 
him:  the  wings  he  heard  were  those  of  Michael,  Gabriel 
and  Raphael  come  from  the  battlements  of  heaven,  flying 
over  continents  and  seas,  and  always  in  circles,  lest  any 
corner  of  the  earth  wherein  Lilith  might  be  hidden  should 
escape  their  eyes.  But  there  may  be  days,  and  weeks, 
and  months,  Adam  said,  before  they  find  her.  It  was  as 
he  had  said,  days  and  weeks  and  months  passed  before  the 
angels  flying  over  the  earth  cried  to  one  another:  night 
is  coming  on,  the  clouds  are  thickening;  soon  there  will 
be  no  more  light;  it  might  be  well  for  us  to  descend.     A 


220      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

fair  island  lies  in  the  sea  below  us,  Michael  said;  one 
that  we  have  often  overlooked.  And  Gabriel  answered 
Michael:  as  likely  as  elsewhere  she  may  be  yonder. 
Raphael  and  myself  will  be  glad  to  rest  our  wings;  and 
balancing  themselves  like  the  gulls,  they  descended,  and 
alighting  on  a  long  reach  of  white  strand,  they  sat  there 
resting,  and  watching  the  warm  breeze  coming  and  going, 
shaking  the  juniper  bushes  with  which  the  tussocked  grass 
was  sprinkled,  shaking  them  and  leaving  them  still  again. 
The  earth  is  not  without  its  beauty,  the  angels  were 
thinking,  as  they  sat  listening  to  the  waves  creeping  up 
into  the  bay  over  the  ribbed  strand,  retiring  and  advanc- 
ing, and  creeping  up  to  the  angels,  obliging  them  to  retire 
to  some  rocks  whither  the  tide  did  not  come.  A  beautiful 
evening,  Michael  said,  for  beyond  the  bay,  seaward,  there 
was  a  bar  of  gold  and  a  flush  of  crimson.  There  are 
pleasant  things  to  be  seen  in  this  world,  Michael  con- 
tinued, and  this  island  seems  a  spot  that  our  witch 
might  choose  to  hide  herself  in.  It  seems  to  be  filled 
with  woods,  and  we  may  find  her  in  some  clough  or  dell 
tressing  her  hair,  a  favorite  occupation  of  hers,  so  it  is 
said.  And  then  they  began  to  talk  about  the  neutral 
angels  and  the  miserable  lot  assigned  to  them  to  wander 
always  in  the  border-land  between  earth  and  hell.  All 
are  there  except  Adam,  and  Lilith  is  sometimes  in  the 
deepest  circles  of  hell  with  Lucifer  himself,  whose  aider 
and  abetter  she  is,  and  sometimes  wandering  over  the 
earth  scheming  how  she  may  embarrass  the  lord.  Where- 
as Adam  is  a  poor,  weak  creature,  said  Gabriel.  The  only 
one,  Michael  responded,  whose  sin  was  so  slight  that  to 
our  lord  Iahveh  the  border-lands  seemed  too  great  a 
punishment  for  him.  So  our  lord  and  master  placed  him 
in  a  garden,  Michael  continued,  and  methinks  that 
Lilith's  visits  thither  were  decreed  not  by  him  but  by 
Lucifer,  whom  he  threw  into  hell  after  many  great  bat- 
tles:   you  remember  how  my  spear  struck  him  between 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      221 

the  eyes  as  he  led  his  legions  against  us  up  the  battle- 
ments. It  was  Michael's  way  to  ramble  on,  and,  heedless 
of  him,  Gabriel  and  Raphael  watched  the  moon,  like  a 
white  moth,  that  had  fluttered  peradventure  out  of  the 
earth's  orbit,  till  at  last  the  waves  rushing  over  the  white 
strand  wetted  the  shingled  bank  on  which  the  angels  were 
seated.  We  had  better  be  looking  out  for  some  cave 
inland  where  we  can  pass  the  night,  Gabriel  said;  and 
Raphael  answered  he  was  cold  though  he  had  drawn  his 
wings  closer  round  him. 

A  great  bird  went  by:  he,  too,  seems  cold,  Raphael 
cried,  and  is  seeking  a  warm  roost;  let  us  go  up  into  the 
island  and  find  a  quiet  corner  in  the  woods.  Raphael's 
counsel  was  approved  by  Michael  and  Gabriel,  and 
Iahveh's  three  messengers  retired  from  the  shore,  and 
picking  their  way  through  the  juniper  bushes  they  pene- 
trated through  the  brambles  into  the  clough,  and  lifting 
a  curtain  of  trailing  plants,  Gabriel  said:  behold!  the 
cave  we  are  looking  for.  And  stooping  their  heads  the 
angels  passed  under  a  roof  of  flowers  and  tendrils  into  a 
great  hall,  in  which  lay  a  pool  and  in  it  the  moth-like 
moon  they  had  seen  without;  at  which  the  angels  were 
astonished;  but  on  looking  up  through  a  fissure  in  the 
rocks  and  seeing  the  moon  still  in  the  sky  they  were  at 
one  that  there  was  a  beauty  on  earth  that  seemed  lacking 
in  heaven:  whereupon  Michael  said:  we  have  been  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  earth  now  for  forty  days,  flying 
in  search  of  Lilith,  and  have  lost  some  of  our  angelic 
nature;  let  us  hope  that  we  may  find  her  and  return  to 
heaven  lest  we  become  contaminated. 

Gabriel  and  Raphael  did  not  share  Michael's  fears  and 
were  glad  of  the  white  sand  with  which  the  floor  of  the 
cave  was  covered:  we  shall  awaken  to-morrow  as  celes- 
tial as  the  day  when  we  left  the  ramparts  of  heaven. 
Iahveh  would  not  have  sent  us  on  this  errand  if  we  were 


222      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

to  be  contaminated,  Gabriel  said.  We  are  immortal, 
Raphael  answered,  and  he  asked  Michael  if  that  weren't 
so,  but  Michael  answered  nothing,  he  being  asleep.  But 
it  was  not  many  minutes  before  he  began  to  moan  and 
toss  himself  in  his  sleep,  setting  Gabriel  and  Raphael 
wondering:  what  has  befallen  our  brother?  for  he  mur- 
murs now  in  his  sleep,  so  loudly  that  we  cannot  hear  the 
doves  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  Gabriel  whispered.  He 
murmurs,  Raphael  said,  somewhat  like  the  doves;  and 
Gabriel  replied:  but  now  his  cooing  has  changed  into 
cries :  the  doves  go  away  out  of  the  clefts  with  a  clang  of 
wings;  what  can  have  befallen  our  brother?  The  island 
is  enchanted,  Raphael  whispered;  let  us  away.  But, 
Gabriel  answered,  we  cannot  leave  our  brother  in  the 
power  of  the  enchantress. 

At  that  moment  a  great  cry  broke  from  Michael  and 
he  rolled  into  the  moonbeam  and  lay  in  it  gazing  at  the 
moon,  recovering  himself  at  last  sufficiently  to  overlook 
his  brethren  who  were  pretending  sleep.  And  they  seem- 
ing to  him  to  be  in  deep  sleep  he  ventured  to  his  feet  and 
passed  under  the  curtain  of  trailing  plants  out  of  the 
cave.  Is  our  brother  playing  us  false?  Gabriel  whispered 
to  Raphael.  Has  she  bidden  him  to  her  in  a  dream? 
Raphael  asked;  and  the  twain  rose,  and  going  to  the 
mouth  of  the  cave  they  stood  like  stocks  and  watched 
their  brother  in  amazement,  and  he  walking  down  to  the 
sea  and  bathing  therein  like  one  who  wished  to  purify 
himself  after  sin.  Michael  must  not  know  that  we  have 
observed  him,  Gabriel  said.  The  spell  of  the  enchantress 
has  certainly  fallen  upon  him,  Raphael  muttered;  let  us 
to  our  beds,  and,  convinced  that  his  brethren  slept, 
Michael  laid  himself  down.  But  they  had  not  slept  long 
before  Gabriel  began  to  sigh  in  his  sleep,  and  very  soon 
his  sighs  became  moans;  he  tossed  himself,  lifting  him- 
self bridge-wise,  falling  back  again,  at  last  rolling  over  on 
his  side. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      223 

She  has  visited  brother  Gabriel  in  his  dream,  Raphael 
whispered  to  Michael,  and  Michael  said:  hush!  Let  us 
pretend  to  be  asleep,  and  just  as  Gabriel  and  Raphael 
had  seen  Michael  go  down  to  the  sea  to  bathe  himself, 
they  saw  Gabriel  do  the  same,  and  were  astonished 
thereby. 

Now  when  Gabriel  returned  to  the  cave  he  spied  upon 
his  brethren  to  make  sure  they  were  sleeping  and  had 
learned  nothing  of  what  had  befallen  him,  and  they 
feigning  sleep  so  well  that  he  believed  them  to  be  asleep, 
he  laid  himself  down.  But  sleep  had  not  long  obtained 
hold  of  him  when  Raphael  was  overtaken  by  a  dream  of 
the  enchantress;  his  sighs  and  moans  were  the  same  as 
his  brothers'  had  been;  and  when  at  last  his  desire  was 
eased  in  one  sharp  pang,  he  did  as  they  had  done;  he 
went  to  the  sea  for  purification,  and  believing  his  breth- 
ren to  be  really  asleep  when  he  returned  to  the  cave,  he 
chuckled,  saying  to  himself:  in  the  morning  I  will 
question  them,  and  they  will  give  evasive  answers,  but  I 
know  that  Michael  dreamed  of  her;  Michael  knows  that 
Gabriel  dreamed  of  her,  but  none  knows  that  I  too  was 
taken  in  her  net  of  pleasure  and  of  pain;  and  while  think- 
ing how  he  might  discern  between  the  twain  he  fell  asleep 
listening  to  a  nightingale  singing  in  the  vine  in  the  fis- 
sure of  the  rocks.  Other  nightingales  began  soon  after, 
and  the  birds  awakened  the  tired  angels.  We  have  no 
such  music  in  heaven,  Gabriel  said;  and  Michael  answered: 
we  might  take  one  of  these  birds  to  teach  our  choristers. 
And  Raphael  muttered:  we  must  not  let  our  thoughts 
dwell  on  the  pleasures  of  the  earth,  for  our  habitation 
is  with  God  among  the  peaks;  let  us  not  forget  that 
we  are  the  angels  of  the  lord. 

These  admonitions  from  Raphael  were  felt  to  be  un- 
called for  and  unjust,  but  the  three  angels  were  overcome 
by  the  desire  of  sleep;  they  slept  despite  the  chorusing 
of   the   birds    and   it   was   broad   daylight   when   they 


224      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

awoke.  We  have  overslept  ourselves,  said  Michael,  and 
lifting  the  curtain  of  creeping  plants,  he  added:  a  lovely 
morning  awaits  us.  On  these  words  Gabriel  and  Raphael 
arose,  and  blinking  still,  they  stumbled  into  what  seemed 
to  them  the  most  beautiful  day  that  had  unclosed  before 
their  eyes  since  Iahveh  sent  them  on  their  errand.  And 
thanking  God  for  having  sent  them  on  it,  they  walked 
about  the  island  admiring  the  woods,  the  dells  within  the 
woods,  the  reaches  of  white  sand  leading  to  the  sea  and 
the  rocks  rising  above  the  sea.  We  have  not  alighted  as 
often  as  we  should  have  done;  we  have  wearied  ourselves 
flying  from  dawn  to  sunset,  Raphael  murmured  to  himself, 
with  the  intention  that  his  companions  should  hear  him, 
which  they  did,  and  Michael,  remembering  how  he  had 
admonished  them  overnight,  lest  their  thoughts  should 
linger  on  the  many  beauties  they  beheld  in  the  world, 
answered  him :  yesternight  my  words  were  that  we  should 
not  think  overmuch  of  what  we  saw  and  heard  in  this 
world,  but  remember  always  that  we  are  archangels.  The 
beauty  of  the  morning  refreshes  the  eyes,  and  the  air  is 
sweet  in  the  lungs,  Raphael  answered,  and  the  angels 
stopped  on  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  so  that  they  might 
watch  the  love  dance  of  the  butterflies.  Shall  we  cross 
the  flowering  plain,  Gabriel  asked,  and  Michael  answered: 
yes,  for  in  that  ring  of  trees  she  may  be  sitting;  and 
Raphael,  the  slyest  of  the  three,  asked  his  brother  why, 
having  searched  the  earth  all  over  in  vain  for  Lilith,  he 
should  think  to  find  her  in  that  ring  of  trees.  Enchant- 
ment was  abroad  last  night,  Michael  answered;  didst  find 
it  so,  Raphael?  And  Raphael  answered :  I  heard  sighing 
and  moaning  as  of  doves;  and  they  were  speaking  of 
the  songs  of  the  nightingales  when  they  entered  the 
ring  of  trees  in  the  middle  of  the  plain,  in  the  centre 
of  which  was  a  well,  and  by  it,  as  Michael  anticipated, 
Lilith  sat  combing  her  locks.  So  you've  found  me  at 
last,  she  said  to  the  angels,  and  Michael  answered:   thou 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      225 

talkest  as  one  that  expecteth  visitors.  And  she  replied: 
expecteth  you,  yes,  and  a  long  time  past,  for  many  is  the 
time  I've  caught  sight  of  your  wings  in  this  well,  and 
expected  your  alighting  in  the  flowering  meadow,  but 
you  went  away  north  and  south,  leaving  me  waiting  for 
you  here. 

I  have  watched  your  pursuit  of  me,  for  in  this  well  all 
things  are  mirrored;  and  from  this  spot  I  need  not  turn 
to  know  everything  that  befalls  the  world. 

And  last  night said  Michael.     Last  night,  Lilith 

interrupted,  I  saw  you  sweep  down  and  alight  on  to  the 
firm  sand  after  long  flying.  You  went  up  the  beach 
together  in  search  of  a  cave,  and  I  was  with  you  during 
the  night  in  dreams,  she  continued,  causing  the  angels 
to  hang  down  their  heads  ashamed.  But  Lilith  being 
among  the  fallen  angels  was  in  no  wise  ashamed,  and 
extorted  from  Michael  a  confession  that  he  had  followed 
a  white  phantom  in  his  dreams,  and  overtaking  her  among 
the  woods,  she  had  whispered  to  him:  seek  some  soft  bank 
of  flowers.  They  had  wandered  in  search  of  this  bank  and 
were  always  on  the  point  of  discovering  it,  but  the  flowers 
vanished.  At  last  a  pang  of  pleasure  or  pain,  he  knew  not 
which,  divided  them.  I  saw  thee  no  more,  he  said.  And 
now,  Gabriel,  emulate  the  truthfulness  of  thy  brother's 
words,  and  tell  me  in  what  form  I  came  to  thee,  in  what 
form  thou  sawest  me.  Thou  earnest  upon  me,  Gabriel  said, 
as  I  was  on  my  way  to  obey  a  summons  to  attend  upon 
our  lord  the  mighty  Iahveh;  thou  earnest  upon  me,  and  I 
begged  thee  to  allow  me  to  answer  his  summons,  prom- 
ising to  return  to  thee.  But  thou  wouldst  not  hide  thy 
bosom  with  thy  hair,  and  we  sought  to  hide  ourselves  be- 
hind a  cloud;  but  Michael  and  Raphael,  who  were  jealous 
of  me,  dissolved  the  cloud  into  rain.  And  now,  Raphael, 
Lilith  said,  tell  thy  dream  of  me,  for  I  was  with  thee  too. 
And  Raphael,  who  was  filled  with  subterfuge,  stood  by 
more  embarrassed  than  his  brethren,  and  tried  to  elude 


226      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

the  witch's  examination,  but  Lilith  pursued  him  with 
questions,  and  the  companions  turned  upon  him  and  said : 
we  were  awakened  by  sighs  and  moans;  we  feigned  sleep, 
but  through  our  half-opened  eyelids  we  saw  thee  leave 
the  cave  and  go  down  and  bathe  thyself  in  the  sea. 
Whereupon  Raphael,  seeing  that  further  concealment  was 
unavailing,  answered  that  all  he  had  seen  or  felt  of  the 
temptation  that  had  visited  him  in  the  night  were  two 
red  lips,  winged  lips,  he  said,  that  hovered  over  me  and 
sank  upon  my  lips,  sending  a  sting  between  at  which  all 
my  flesh  shuddered:  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  lifted  into  an  ecstasy  more  intense  than  heaven:  I 
seemed  to  dissolve.  At  last  thou  hast  found  the  truth, 
Raphael,  Lilith  said,  and  it  was  thus  in  many  shapes 
that  I  visited  Adam  on  the  flowering  bank  in  Eden,  be- 
tween sleeping  and  waking,  and  in  deep  dreams. 

We  have  come,  said  Michael,  interrupting  Lilith  sud- 
denly, to  ask  thee  if  thou  wilt  return  to  Adam;  we  have 
come  from  the  lord  Iahveh,  shall  we  say  thy  God?  Say 
it  not,  said  Lilith.  You  have  come  from  Iahveh  to  ask 
me  to  return  to  Adam,  and  my  answer  is  that  my  lord  is 
Lucifer  and  he  would  not  have  me  obedient  to  any  other 
God.  Not  to  exact  obedience,  said  Raphael,  have  we 
come;  not  to  exact  obedience,  Gabriel  insisted.  And 
standing  on  either  side  of  Lilith,  who  continued  combing 
her  golden  locks,  regaling  herself  with  her  beauty  reflect- 
ed in  the  still  waters  of  the  well,  the  angels  besought  her 
to  return  to  Adam;  and  she  answered:  I  cannot  abjure 
Lucifer,  he  has  power  over  me  as  the  lord  hath  power 
over  you.  It  is  by  his  will  that  I  visited  Adam  and  it  is 
by  his  will  that  I  left  Adam.  A  last  word  we  would 
have  with  thee,  Michael  said.  Knowest  thou,  Lilith, 
that  if  thou  wilt  not  return  to  Adam,  Iahveh  will  create 
out  of  earth  a  fairer  woman  for  Adam's  enjoyment  and 
companionship  in  the  garden.  A  fairer  woman  than  I 
am,  Lilith  answered,  raising  her  head  from  the  well,  and 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      227 

it  is  you  who  were  with  me  last  night  that  say  it?  I 
doubt  the  power  of  the  lord  in  heaven  to  do  what  you 
say.  And  the  angels  who  were  smitten  with  doubt 
whether  she  had  not  spoken  the  truth  feared  to  look 
upon  her  longer  lest  their  doubts  should  be  strengthened 
regarding  the  power  of  the  God  they  served. 

We  will  return,  said  they,  to  the  lord  with  thine  inso- 
lent answer,  and  she  saw  the  angels  spread  their  wings 
and  depart  up  into  the  beautiful  morning  sky,  passing 
over  the  clouds  into  the  blue  spaces  beyond.  They  will 
reach  the  ramparts  of  heaven  before  many  hours  have 
passed,  she  said  to  herself. 


CHAPTER  35. 

IAHVEH  is  impatient  and  restless,  Lilith  said,  for  she 
could  see  him  in  her  well  looking  over  the  battlements 
awaiting  his  archangels;  and  she  could  see  too  the  scout- 
ing cohorts  of  seraphim  and  cherubim  that  he  had  sent 
forth,  seeking  the  wings  of  their  brethren  on  every  hori- 
zon. At  last  one  of  the  winged  messengers  stood  before 
the  lord.  Michael  and  Gabriel  and  Raphael  have  been 
seen  by  our  distant  brethren,  he  said,  and  they  have 
passed  the  word  on  to  us.  I  have  arrived  with  the  news 
for  the  lord,  glad  to  be  the  first  to  bring  it.  At  these 
words  the  angels  broke  into  song,  and  spreading  out 
their  wings  they  formed  circle-wise  around  the  lord,  who, 
after  thanking  them,  dismissed  them  abruptly,  his  mind 
being  perturbed  and  beset  with  thoughts  of  the  news 
that  his  archangels  were  bringing  to  him. 

All  things  were  reflected  in  his  wisdom;  he  was  dis- 
traught thereby,  and  Michael,  Gabriel  and  Raphael  dared 
not  advance  from  the  battlement  on  which  they  had 
alighted.  Our  lord  Iahveh,  said  Michael,  after  many 
wanderings  we  return  to  thee.     Is  Lilith  returning  to 


228      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

Adam?  the  lord  asked.    We  were  flying  one  night  above 

an  island Michael  began.     Her  words  were,  Lord, 

Gabriel  interjected,  that  she  was  one  of  Lucifer's  vassals 
and  obedient  only  unto  him.  Whereat  a  cloud  gathered 
on  the  lord's  face,  and  Michael  and  Raphael  regretted 
Gabriel's  admission  that  Lilith  had  vowed  herself  unto 
Satan.  Whereupon  Iahveh's  face  was  like  the  whirlwind, 
and  the  mountains  shook  with  his  voice.  She  will  not 
return  to  Adam,  the  Lord  repeated,  and  the  subaltern 
angels  hid  themselves  in  the  clefts.  A  companion  must 
be  given  to  Adam,  for  I  have  promised  him  one.  Tell 
me  of  your  discovery  of  Lilith;  and  begin  thy  narrative, 
he  said,  raising  his  eyes  to  Michael,  Michael  began :  But 
God  was  listless  and  gave  a  poor  ear  to  the  story  of  the 
great  flying  excursion,  wonderful  though  it  was;  and 
Gabriel,  seeing  that  Michael  was  speaking  dryly,  began 
to  grow  impatient,  and  might  have  related  the  curious 
dreams  that  befell  them  in  the  cave  if  the  Lord  had  not 
dismissed  his  archangels  suddenly,  saying:  leave  me  to 
meditate.  And  for  many  days  the  Lord  sat  in  his  golden 
chair,  his  brow  darkened  by  the  shadows  of  coming  diffi- 
culties, his  thoughts  revolving  in  memories  of  his  wars 
against  the  highest  and  best-beloved  of  the  archangels. 

Lucifer  had  plotted  against  him,  the  cohorts  had  been 
at  battle  pursuing  the  foe  or  being  pursued  by  the  foe, 
aeon  after  seon.  Heaven  was  without  music  of  harp  and 
lyre,  only  the  clash  of  swords  and  shields  was  heard 
echoing  from  aeon  to  seon,  while  the  war  was  pursued 
from  star  to  star  across  the  sky  and  down  the  sky,  angels 
falling  into  the  pit  and  rising  out  of  the  pit  to  renew  the 
fight.  But  at  last  the  Lord's  angels  discovered  a  way  to 
victory,  the  evil  angels  were  enclosed  within  the  gates  of 
hell,  and  when  the  gates  clashed  upon  them,  the  Lord 
said:  we  are  at  peace  again;  the  weariness  of  battle  is 
over,  and  peace  broods  once  more  in  heaven.  But  my 
perplexities  are  not  over  yet.     I  have  created  an  earth 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      229 

so  that  I  may  have  a  garden  in  which  to  place  Adam, 
whom  I  wish  to  separate  from  the  other  neutrals.     Let 
my  will  be  done,  said  the  Lord,  and  instantly  Adam 
found  himself  in  a  garden  with  Lilith  for  his  ghostly 
visitor,  till  Lucifer,  who  still  plotted  against  the  Lord, 
bade  her  away  from  Adam,  for  in  his  evil  heart  he  hoped 
through  Adam  to  bring  Iahveh's  kingdom  to  naught.    He 
must  have  a  companion,  said  the  Lord,  for  after  his  great 
victory  over  Lucifer  the  Lord's  heart  was  softened,  and 
he  was  moved  to  abide  in  peace  in  his  heaven  among  the 
angels,  listening  to  their  glorifications,  to  their  praise,  to 
their  songs,  to  the  music  of  harp  and  of  timbrel  year 
after  year,  century  after  century,  aeon  after  seon.     But 
over  Iahveh  himself  is  a  law,  and  by  virtue  of  that  law 
I  am  compelled  to  create,  to  equalise  all  things,  to  pair 
all.    Again  the  Lord  was  troubled,  and  he  asked  himself 
in  vain  why  this  was  so,  for  was  he  not,  since  Lucifer's 
overthrow,  almighty?  almighty,  yes,  but  he  must  create, 
though  his  creations  might  lead  to  his  own  destruction  in 
some  distant  time.    A  fate  there  is  behind  the  gods  sure- 
ly, he  muttered  once  again  and,  compelled  by  his  fate, 
he  descended  one  night  into  the  garden  of  Eden  and 
reached  out  his  hand  to  take  a  rib  out  of  the  side  of 
Adam,  and  with  that  rib  he  made  a  creature  like  unto 
Adam,  and  when  Adam  woke  in  the  morning  he  found 
God's  last  work,  Eve,  sleeping  by  his  side. 

God  was  pleased  with  his  work,  and  Adam  wondered 
at  her  shape,  Eve's  sloping  shoulders  surprised  him, 
and  her  bosom  even  more  so;  he  could  not  understand 
why  she  should  bulge  under  her  throat;  and  he  said  she 
is  so  heavy  about  the  hips,  that  she'll  never  be  much 
good  at  the  climbing  of  trees  after  fruit;  I  shall  have  to 
climb  and  shake  the  branches  for  her.  The  other  differ- 
ences in  her  shape  seemed  to  him  still  more  strange;  she 
seemed  to  him  incomplete,  and  wondering  at  her  incom- 
pleteness he  walked  towards  the  river,  thinking  that  she 


230      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

seemed  to  need  washing  and  would  smell  the  sweeter 
after  plunging.  As  he  was  about  to  turn  back  to  ask  her 
to  come  to  the  river  with  him  he  remembered  that  to 
rouse  her  would  be  unkind,  so  peaceful  was  her  sleep  and 
so  healthful  did  it  seem.  So  he  turned  towards  the  river 
again,  but  his  steps  had  awakened  Eve,  who,  sitting  up 
on  her  buttocks,  watched  him,  and  the  instinct  of  pur- 
suit arising  in  her  in  an  instant,  she  followed  him,  stum- 
bling over  the  ground  in  her  great  hurry. 

Over  the  brink  he  went  head  foremost  into  a  deep  pool, 
and  she,  knowing  nothing  of  water  and  its  dangers,  tum- 
bled in  after  him,  making  a  great  plop,  fortunately  caus- 
ing him  to  look  round,  and,  seeing  what  had  happened, 
Adam  dived.  He  didn't  recover  her,  and  dived  again, 
and  this  time  he  managed  to  get  hold  of  her  by  the  hair, 
and  by  it  he  towed  her  to  the  bank  and  laid  her  out, 
wondering  why  she  lay  so  still.  It  might  be  well  to  let 
some  of  the  water  run  out  of  her,  he  said  to  himself,  so 
he  turned  her  over,  and  when  she  had  vomited  forth  her 
eyes  opened,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she  was  sitting 
up  and  asking  Adam  to  tell  her  what  had  fallen  out. 
Thou  art  Eve,  he  answered,  the  companion  that  Iahveh 
promised  me.  We  are  in  Eden ;  and  the  river  is  for  swim- 
mers, and  until  thou  hast  learnt  to  swim  thou  must  not 
venture  into  the  deep  pools.  But  I  will  teach  the  art  to 
thee;  and  it  pleased  Eve  to  hear  that  she  was  going  to 
learn  from  Adam.  But  shall  I  go  under  the  water?  she 
asked.  Adam  answered  that  he  would  support  her.  She 
liked  to  hear  that  his  hand  would  be  under  her  chin. 
But  her  thoughts  turning  from  to-morrow  suddenly,  she 
said:  but  thou  hast  not  told  me  how  I  came  hither. 
Adam  looked  forward  to  telling  her  the  whole  story,  for 
since  he  had  washed  her  as  she  lay  unconscious  on  the 
bank,  and  disentangled  her  hair,  she  had  begun  to  seem 
different  in  his  eyes,  and  they  went  through  the  garden 
together,  Adam  showing  the  fruit  trees  that  abounded, 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      231 

giving  her  fruit  to  eat,  and  Eve  gathering  flowers,  where- 
with to  weave  into  a  wreath  for  her  hair. 

Iahveh  gave  thee  to  me  for  I  was  lonely  in  this  garden, 
he  said,  and  her  eyes  brightened,  and  she  said:    who  is 
Iahveh?     Hush,  said  Adam,  the  sacred  name  must  be 
spoken  more  reverently;  he  put  his  fingers  to  his  lips,  and 
the  alarmed  twain  stood  gazing  at  the  pillared  fir-trees 
that  grew  round  the  stone  altar,  their  skins  drying  quick- 
ly in  the  warm  air.    A  touch  of  autumn  was  in  it,  but  the 
sun  was  glowing,  and  when  the  lonely  cloud  that  had 
hidden  the  sun  for  a  minute  passed  on,  the  garden  by  the 
spell   of   contrast   seemed   more   beautiful   than   before. 
Come  thou  with  me  to  his  altar,  Eve:     I  would  thank 
him  for  his  gift  to  me  of  thee,  and  they  went  up  the  path, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  thrown  himself  on  the  ground  and 
bowed  himself  three  times,  and  muttered  in  his  beard,  he 
arose  and,  taking  Eve's  hand  in  his,  he  said :   by  Iahveh's 
altar  I  will  tell  the  story  of  Iahveh's  wars  against  Lucifer. 
Eve  listened  because  Adam's  voice  pleased  her,  but 
she  would  rather  have  heard  his  voice  on  a  subject  near- 
er to  them  than  the  clashing  of  shields  of  long  ago,  the 
hurling  of  swords  and  the  thrusting  of  spears  in  the 
abyss;  and  despite  her  desire  to  please  Adam  her  thoughts 
were  often  away  from  the  conflicts  that  had  taken  place 
in  the  middle  air  over  against  the  ramparts  of  heaven 
and  about  the  gates  of  the  pit. 

Adam  was  at  this  time  a  young  man  of  comely  pres- 
ence, tall  and  lithe,  and  Eve  would  not  have  had  his 
shoulders  different  from  what  they  were.  They  flanged 
out  from  the  neck  nobly,  and  she  liked  his  long,  thin, 
sinewy  arms,  and  the  big  hands  that  she  could  see  were 
stronger  than  hers.  His  chest  is  flat  and  the  hips  narrow; 
his  legs  are  long  and  sinewy,  not  round,  like  mine,  she 
said.  I  like  his  shape,  she  murmured,  and  hoped  that  he 
liked  hers.  Now  of  what  are  you  thinking?  he  said.  I 
was  thinking,  she  answered,  that  if  thou  hadst  headed 


232      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

the  army  of  Lucifer  thou  wouldst  have  conquered  Iahveh. 
Adam's  face  filled  with  shadow,  so  lightly  did  she  speak 
the  name,  and  he  said :  thou  must  not  think  such  wicked 
thoughts,  and  leaving  the  altar  he  paced  before  her.  His 
steps  pleased  her,  so  strong  and  rhythmical  were  they, 
and  she  enjoyed  his  back,  so  strong  did  it  seem.  Thou 
art  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  this  garden,  she  said,  and 
my  eyes  will  never  weary  of  overlooking  thee.  Now 
what  is  this  hairy  thing  I  see,  and  what  use  is  it?  she 
said.  And  Adam  did  not  answer  her.  He  was  thinking 
the  while  of  the  great  battles  of  long  ago,  the  clashing  of 
the  shields  and  the  dense  array  of  spears,  but  at  last  her 
hands  awoke  him  from  his  reverie.  Don't  pull  it  so,  he 
said,  and  she  loosed  his  beard.  Why  have  I  not  one?  she 
asked;  my  poor  face  is  bare.  But  it  is  more  beautiful 
bare  than  hairy.  I  have  often  wished  to  be  without  my 
beard.  But  I  would  not  wish  thee  without  it,  she  an- 
swered, and  each  was  a  gazing  stock  to  the  other. 
Adam's  muscles  were  Eve's  admiration,  and  the  sweet 
roundnesses  of  Eve's  limbs,  Adam's.  Why  these  breasts? 
he  said.  Dost  not  like  them?  she  asked.  Yes;  they  are 
beautiful.  How  flat  and  shapeless  am  I.  Say  not  so, 
thou  art  very  beautiful,  Adam.  How  much  stronger, 
how  much  fleeter,  and  she  continued  to  find  pleasure  in 
Adam  as  they  walked  along  and  across  the  garden  under 
the  fruit  trees,  eating  of  the  purple  figs  and  the  pink 
peaches,  Adam  showing  how  the  fruit  must  be  skinned 
before  it  can  be  eaten  and  Eve  doing  as  she  was  bidden: 
though  her  appetite  had  not  yet  begun  to  awaken  she 
ate  the  fruit,  for  she  could  not  do  anything  except  that 
which  she  thought  would  please  Adam.  But  thou  wilt 
not  listen  to  the  valour  of  the  angels,  said  Adam.  I  will 
listen,  she  replied,  when  I  grow  weary  of  looking  upon 
thee.  But  wilt  thou  grow  weary  of  me?  Adam  asked. 
And  they  fell  to  pondering  on  the  chance  words  that  had 
been  uttered.     At  last  Eve  asked:     whither  leads  that 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      233 

path?  It  leads,  he  answered,  to  the  fig-trees,  under 
whose  shelter  I  sleep  at  night.  Let  us  go  thither,  for  I 
would  share  thy  bed,  she  said.  Thou  shalt  share  it,  Eve, 
but  before  we  lie  down  together  thou  must  learn  to  pray 
to  Iahveh. 

Eve  had  little  heart  for  learning  prayers,  and  his  face 
telling  his  disapprobation,  she  said:  thou  art  not  satis- 
fied with  me.  And  on  these  words  they  fell  asleep  on  the 
flowering  bank.  And  they  slept  till  morning  arose  on  the 
garden,  as  children  do. 


CHAPTER  36. 

IT  was  the  sparrows  twittering  in  the  vine  that  awoke 
Adam,  and  laying  his  hand  on  Eve's  shoulder,  who 
was  still  asleep,  he  said:  the  day  is  beginning;  come,  let 
us  offer  thanks  to  Iahveh  for  the  joyful  light,  and  Eve, 
rousing  herself  from  her  sleep,  said:  thy  will  be  done, 
and  she  followed  Adam  up  the  hill-side,  and  imitated  him 
in  all  things,  throwing  herself  on  the  ground  and  bowing 
herself  three  times;  and  when  this  ritual  was  accom- 
plished she  gave  ear  to  Adam's  prolonged  mutterings, 
and  strove  to  understand  them,  but  soon  her  brain 
wearied,  and  she  might  have  renounced  the  task  of  try- 
ing to  follow  his  repentance  for  the  sins  he  had  commit- 
ted in  heaven  if  she  had  not  suddenly  heard  the  name  of 
Lilith.  Now  who  can  Lilith  be?  One  of  the  angels  of 
whom  Adam  tells  such  long  stories?  she  asked  herself. 
Somebody  he  knew  before  the  fall,  she  added,  and  re- 
solved to  await  an  occasion  when  she  could  inquire  of 
him  who  Lilith  might  be.  Nor  was  it  long  before  she 
heard  him  speak  of  Lilith's  visits  to  the  garden.  By 
whose  orders  did  she  come  to  the  garden:  Iahveh's  or 
Lucifer's?  she  asked  herself,  and  the  question  would  have 
been  put  to  Adam  if  he  had  not  been  muttering  prayers, 


234      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

and  if  the  thought  had  not  come  to  Eve  that  it  might  be 
well  for  her  to  get  a  confession  from  Adam  that  the  mem- 
ory of  the  days  he  had  spent  in  the  garden  with  Lilith 
were  still  dear  to  him.  Iahveh  is  but  a  blind,  she  said,  as 
she  set  the  peaches  and  figs  she  had  gathered  before 
Adam;  and  while  he  ate  thereof  she  began  to  speak  to 
him  of  their  thanksgivings,  and  offerings  of  fruits,  and 
to  tell  the  hope  she  cherished  that  the  day's  work  before 
them  would  be  pleasing  to  Iahveh,  making  herself  pleas- 
ing to  Adam  thereby  and  advancing  herself  still  further 
in  his  favour  when  she  returned  to  the  stories  he  had 
told  her  yesterday  as  if  she  had  been  considering  them 
ever  since:  the  clashing  of  the  shields  when  Iahveh's 
angels  descended  to  give  battle  unto  Lucifer;  how  Gabriel 
whirled  his  sword  and  an  entire  legion  fell  before  it,  and 
how  a  plump  of  spears  fell  back  before  Michael's  spear. 
On  these  feats  and  on  the  recital  of  Raphael's  ruses  in 
outflanking  the  enemy,  Adam  relied  to  engage  her  mind, 
and  remembering  how  languidly  she  had  listened  yester- 
day he  was  overjoyed  at  seeing  that  he  had  in  the  main 
misjudged  her,  and  began  to  relate  the  story  over  again 
from  the  beginning,  watching  her  carefully  all  the  time; 
but  her  attention  never  relaxed,  and  she  showed  desire 
to  be  instructed,  saying :  thou  wast  wise  not  to  join  with 
Lucifer's  angels,  for  Iahveh  is  all-powerful,  and  knowing 
him  to  be  all-powerful,  thou  hadst  the  wisdom  to  re- 
frain. I  knew  the  power  of  Iahveh  the  almighty,  Adam 
answered  her.  And  Lucifer,  she  said,  must  have  known 
that  too.  Yes,  he  too  knew  him  to  be  an  almighty  God. 
Then  why,  she  asked  innocently,  did  Lucifer  rebel  against 
that  which  he  knew  to  be  almighty? 

At  this  question  a  cloud  came  into  Adam's  face,  and 
he  began  a*  tangled  explanation  to  which  Eve  listened, 
knowing  well  that  the  thing  she  desired  to  hear  would 
soon  be  made  known  to  her.  So  she  had  patience  with 
Adam,  and  listened  to  his  prolix  relation  that  although 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      235 

God  was  almighty  he  had,  as  it  were,  delegated  the  ad- 
ministration of  evil  to  Lucifer,  reserving  to  himself  the 
administration  of  all  good  things.  This  was  the  first 
circle  of  thought  into  which  Adam  descended.  He  de- 
scended into  still  further  circles,  and  with  Eve's  eyes 
upon  him  he  couldn't  doubt  that  she  listened.  But  did 
she  understand?  he  asked  himself,  and  was  satisfied  that 
she  did.  And  then,  as  if  picking  up  her  thoughts  a  little 
farther  on,  Eve  said:  thou  wast  lonely  in  the  garden 
before  he  gave  me  to  thee?  and  Adam  answered  inno- 
cently: not  lonely,  for  there  was  Lilith.  At  which  she 
opened  her  eyes  as  if  she  had  not  heard  the  name  before, 
and  asked:  who  is  Lilith?  Who  is  Lilith?  Adam  an- 
swered; and  he  seemed  to  drop  back  into  a  past  time  and 
away  from  her. 

The  sound  of  her  name  carried  him  as  a  sudden  breeze 
carries  a  barque  from  the  shore  out  into  the  sea.  He 
seemed  to  forget  the  woman  by  his  side,  and  when  he 
spoke  it  was  not  Eve  that  prompted  him  to  speak  but  a 
sudden  memory.  Lilith,  he  said,  was  my  wife  before 
thou  earnest.  We  were  angels  in  heaven  before  the  fall. 
Adam's  thoughts  seemed  to  die  away,  and  Eve  had  to 
awaken  him  with  her  voice.  And  she  came  to  visit  thee 
in  the  garden?  She  came  to  me,  he  answered,  between 
waking  and  sleeping  and  in  dreams.  Didst  never  see 
her  in  the  noonday  as  thou  seest  me?  Eve  asked.  And 
Adam  knew  not  how  to  shape  an  answer  that  Eve  would 
understand,  for  Lilith  was  clear  to  Adam  only  so  long  as 
he  did  not  try  to  express  her  in  words,  or  think  about 
her  too  closely. 

The  mist  at  the  edge  of  the  stream  vanishes  in  the 
morning  when  the  sun's  heat  is  strong,  and  the  mist  re- 
turns to  the  edge  of  the  stream  when  the  sun  sinks  behind 
the  hills.  She  was  evanescent,  Alec,  as  the  mist,  yet  she 
was  very  real,  more  real  than  Eve  sitting  by  him;  Adam 
could  not  put  his  thoughts  into  words  and  Eve  would 


236      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

not  have  understood  him  if  he  had  said:  Lilith  is  the 
reality  behind  the  appearance.  By  appearance  I  mean 
all  that  our  senses  reveal  to  us.  An  orange  will  serve  for 
an  example.  We  know  an  orange  only  through  our 
senses — sight,  hearing,  touch  and  smell — but  it  may  be 
held  that  there  is  something  behind  the  appearance  and 
that  if  we  willingly  forgo  the  appearance  we  reach  real- 
ity, that  which  is  behind  the  appearance.  You  find  it 
difficult  to  follow  this,  Alec,  but  the  hermit  that  you 
told  me  of,  Scothine,  who  lived  in  the  woods  on  water- 
cress and  on  the  crags  by  the  sea  on  gulls'  eggs,  may 
have  gained  the  reality  that  is  perhaps  behind  the  ap- 
pearance. Be  this  as  it  may,  that  was  his  aim:  he  was, 
in  something  more  than  the  conventional  sense  of  the 
words,  a  seeker  of  reality.  We  are  always  told,  Alex  an- 
swered, by  the  clergy  that  the  world  we  live  in  is  but  a 
shape  of  the  real  world  that  is  beyond  heaven,  is  it  that 
you  would  be  telling  me,  sir?  Well,  not  exactly  that, 
Alec,  but  something  like  that.  And  now,  to  get  on  with 
the  story.  Eve  listened  to  Adam,  trying  to  puzzle  out 
his  idea  of  Lilith  to  her,  all  the  while  mad  jealous  she 
was  of  this  ghostly  playmate  who  used  to  come  to  him 
in  dreams,  bringing  such  anguish  of  delight  with  her. 
But  she  was,  begob,  too  wise  a  woman  to  show  her  jeal- 
ousy, and  she  continued  to  listen  to  Adam,  who,  she 
could  see,  gained  great  pleasure  from  his  narrative,  he 
being  one  of  those  who  retired  into  the  past  as  some  do 
into  a  church.  At  times  we'd  all  like  to  get  the  world 
behind  us.  And  in  these  moments  we're  all  seekers  of 
reality,  Alec.  I  think  that  I'm  beginning  to  comprehend, 
he  answered.  But  women  aren't  like  that,  I'm  thinking; 
for  them  life  is  all  in  the  present. 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      237 


CHAPTER  37. 

IF  thou  wouldst  learn  swimming,  come  with  me  to  the 
river,  said  Adam,  and  Eve  followed  Adam  thither, 
doubtful,  without  enthusiasm,  one  might  say  in  fear,  for 
since  yesterday  her  memory  of  the  suffocating  moments 
that  she  had  passed  under  the  water  was  more  distinct. 
But  Adam  was  firm  with  her;  and  supporting  her  with 
one  hand,  he  bade  her  put  her  trust  in  him,  and  told  her 
that  in  a  little  while  she  would  cross  the  river  as  easily 
as  the  animal  swimming  in  the  current  yonder.  Ah,  now 
he  has  gone  under.  Drowned,  said  Eve.  No;  he  has 
come  up  yonder.  He  has  caught  a  fish.  Eve  had  not 
yet  seen  any  fishes,  and  began  to  be  interested  in  them, 
and  in  the  animal  that  had  caught  the  fish.  Trust  thy- 
self to  me,  Adam  said;  and  let  thy  legs  and  hands  move 
together. 

Eve  was  now  tired,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  return 
to  the  bank,  but  after  resting,  the  swimming  lesson  was 
continued,  and  with  so  much  success  that  hope  was  held 
out  to  her  that  she  would  be  able  to  cross  the  river  in  a 
few  days,  a  thing  which  she  very  much  wished  to  do,  for 
the  brown  animals  they  had  seen  diving  in  the  current 
brought  the  fish  they  caught  in  their  jaws  to  a  great  flat 
rock,  and  Eve  was  curious  to  learn  what  became  of  the 
fishes  they  brought  thither.  She  could  see  four  little 
brown  spots,  but  did  not  know  that  these  were  the  otters' 
cubs;  nor  that  otters  lived  upon  fish.  And  every  morn- 
ing, to  please  Adam,  she  applied  herself  to  the  task  of 
learning  to  swim  in  the  pool,  and,  as  he  had  foreseen,  in 
a  few  days  her  arms  and  legs  began  to  move  together, 
and  in  a  few  days  more  she  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  wading  very  quietly  towards  the  rock  on  which  the 
cubs  waited. 


238      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

The  otters  had  already  distributed  some  fishes  among 
the  cubs,  and  these  were  eagerly  disputed  with  a  strange 
whistling  noise,  each  holding  a  fish  in  his  forepaws,  and 
eating  his  way  from  the  head  down  to  the  tail  which  he 
discarded.  Adam  and  Eve  could  see  the  fish  did  not  like 
being  eaten,  for  the  fish  struggled,  but  the  cubs  held  the 
fishes  tightly  in  their  paws,  and  continued  to  gnaw  them. 
I  wonder  what  the  fishes  taste  like,  Eve  said;  but  neither 
had  eaten  flesh,  and  they  were  loth  to  take  a  piece  from 
the  cubs,  which  they  could  have  easily  done,  for  one  of 
the  cubs  had  shown  such  signs  of  friendliness  that  he  al- 
most offered  them  a  piece  of  fish,  but  they  were  loth  to 
accept  his  gift,  for  they  were  suddenly  possessed  of  a 
strange  premonition,  a  sort  of  instinctive  knowledge  it 
was  that  the  larger  animals  were  responsible  for  the 
coming  into  the  world  of  the  smaller  animals,  and  these 
smaller  animals  were  being  fed  by  them  upon  fish.  But 
what  becomes  of  the  fish?  they  asked  themselves;  for 
they  that  are  now  within  the  otters  were  swimming  in 
the  river,  leaping  in  the  sunlight  a  while  ago,  and  feeling 
that  neither  could  explain  the  mystery  to  the  other, 
Adam  and  Eve  retired  to  their  own  side  of  the  river,  per- 
plexed and  unhappy. 

It  was  some  days  later,  while  they  were  bathing  in  the 
river,  that  they  caught  sight  of  the  otters  with  their  four 
cubs  in  the  river,  daddy  and  mummy  teaching  the  young- 
lings how  to  pursue  the  fishes  under  the  water,  and  a 
great  commotion  they  were  making,  the  terrified  fishes 
striving  to  escape  from  their  enemies  in  all  directions, 
some  of  them  darting  up  an  inlet  in  which  there  was  so 
little  water  that  Adam  and  Eve  might  have  picked  them 
out  with  their  hands.  One  of  the  cubs  followed  these, 
and  presently  he  caught  one  of  them,  and  Adam  and  Eve 
expected  to  see  him  return  to  the  river  and  bring  his 
spoil  to  the  rock  in  front  of  the  den  and  eat  it  there,  but 
a  second  thought  seemed  to  come  through  his  mind,  and 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      239 

instead  of  returning  to  the  river  he  trotted  up  the  bank 
and  laid  the  fish  at  their  feet. 

He  allowed  them  to  stroke  him  and  he  jumped  round 
them,  and  then,  remembering  that  his  business  was  to 
pursue  fishes,  he  returned  to  the  water,  and  they  saw  no 
more  of  him  till  next  day.  Will  he  bring  us  a  fish  again? 
Eve  said,  and  they  waited  at  the  head  of  a  creek.  He 
had  not  forgotten  them  and,  not  content  with  giving 
them  one  fish,  he  returned  to  the  water  and  began  to 
hunt  the  fishes.  Adam  and  Eve  thought  they  would  see 
no  more  of  him,  and  with  the  fish  he  had  given  them 
they  returned  to  their  dwelling  under  the  plane-trees  in 
the  clough  or  dell,  out  of  reach  of  the  winds,  and  great 
was  their  surprise  when  they  saw  the  otter  following 
them  with  a  fish  in  his  mouth,  and,  as  if  to  encourage 
them  to  eat  the  fish  he  had  brought  them,  he  laid  it  be- 
fore them  and  began  to  eat  another,  one  they  had  picked 
out  of  the  shallows,  and  he  ate  with  a  relish  which  they 
accepted  as  wilful  exaggeration,  his  purpose  being  to  win 
them  over  to  his  mode  of  life.  We  shall  do  well  to  imi- 
tate the  animals,  Eve  said,  for  they  know  more  than  we 
do,  isn't  that  so?  she  asked,  as  she  sliced  a  fish  with  a 
sharp  stone  and  gave  half  of  it  to  Adam.  The  animals 
must  know  more  than  we  do;  it  could  not  be  else,  he 
said,  they  having  lived  upon  the  earth  always,  and  as  he 
said  these  words  a  shadow  overran  his  face,  and  to  dis- 
perse it  she  called  to  Othniel,  the  name  they  had  given 
the  otter,  and  he  came  trotting  round  her  feet,  and 
jumped  upon  her  knees.  Look  at  our  little  swimmer, 
she  said,  who  didn't  need  any  teaching.  Is  he  not  ask- 
ing us  to  take  him  down  to  the  river?  We  must,  for  his 
diet  is  fish,  and  we  cannot  catch  them  for  him.  But  he 
has  just  eaten,  Adam  answered,  for  he  was  thinking  that 
it  might  be  better  to  wean  Othniel  from  the  river,  if 
that  were  possible.  But  as  his  diet  is  fish  we  cannot  keep 
him  from  the  river,  Eve  replied,  and  all  three  went  down 


240      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

to  the  river  together,  Othniel  passing  into  the  stream 
silently  as  oil,  and  showing  himself  a  faster  swimmer 
than  his  wild  brethren,  and  a  more  expert  fisher. 

He  remained  so  long  under  water  that  Eve  clasped  her 
hands,  certain  he  was  drowning;  a  moment  after  they 
caught  sight  of  the  beloved  brown-whiskered  face  coming 
towards  them,  a  silver  fish  in  his  jaws.  But  though  he 
seems  to  prefer  us  to  his  brethren,  the  river  will  tempt 
him  away  from  us,  Adam  said.  Thou  art  thinking  of 
Lilith,  Eve  answered,  and  Adam  denied  that  this  was  so, 
saying  that  he  was  dreaming  of  weapons  whereby  he 
might  take  the  fish  from  the  river,  and,  possessed  by  this 
idea,  he  began  to  sharpen  flints.  But  the  fishes  were 
swift  and  sudden  and  eluded  the  spear  till  Othniel,  as  if 
he  would  save  Adam  from  humiliation,  began  to  drive 
them  towards  Adam.  At  last  a  frightened  fish  fell  to 
Adam's  spear,  and  over  this  fish  Othniel  started  a  great 
gambol;  nor  would  he  be  gainsaid  of  his  fun,  and  his 
pretty  ways  and  intelligence  took  such  a  hold  on  their 
affections  that  they  lived  in  dread  lest  they  should  lose 
him,  a  not  unreasonable  dread  for  he  was  often  unable  to 
subdue  his  mood  to  remain  in  the  river:  he  would  raise 
himself  half-way  out  of  the  water,  acknowledging  their 
calling  by  the  gesture;  and  by  a  sudden  dive  he  sought  to 
tell  them  that  they  need  not  expect  him  yet  awhile. 
They  sought  the  little  runaway  up  the  river  where  the 
water  rushed  over  the  boulders;  he  allowed  them  to  cap- 
ture him  after  a  long  frolic  in  the  warm  autumn  nights 
and  in  turn  they  carried  him  to  a  comfortable  bed  of 
leaves  in  the  cave.  But  if  his  mood  was  for  deep  waters 
he  kept  down  the  stream  and  they  called  and  swam  out 
to  him  in  vain;  to  swim  after  an  otter  is  vainer  than  to 
call  to  him;  and  the  alarmed  twain  stood  watching  the 
current  swirling  almost  silently  past  the  walls  that  Iahveh 
had  built  round  the  garden,  widening  as  it  flowed,  loop- 
ing round  islands,  disappearing  into  forests,  seeming  by 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      241 

times  to  lose  itself  in  marshes  and  fens,  but  recovering 
itself  always  and  threading  its  way  into  the  grey  autumn 
hills  safely.  But  going  whither?  they  asked  themselves, 
forgetful  of  Othniel;  but  only  for  a  moment:  the  river 
brought  him  to  us,  Eve  said,  and  the  river  has  taken  him 
away.  Iahveh  is  greater  than  the  river,  Adam  answered, 
therefore  we  must  pray  that  he  may  bid  Othniel  return 
to  us.  The  words  were  on  Eve's  lips  to  reply:  Iahveh 
cannot  do  that  but  her  feet  turned  into  the  path  and 
they  prayed  at  the  stone  altar  on  the  hill-top  that  Othniel 
might  be  given  back  to  them. 

Iahveh  is  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  us  to-night,  Adam 
said:  we  cannot  awaken  him.  And  Eve  answered: 
though  he  doesn't  answer  us,  he  may  have  heard  us,  and 
certain  that  he  had  heard  their  prayers  and  would  an- 
swer them  favourably  they  slept  lightly,  awakened  often, 
first  by  sighings  that  seemed  to  come  from  Othniel's  bed. 
Eve's  ears  were  quicker  than  Adam's,  but  in  answer  to 
her  Adam  said:  it  isn't  he,  but  the  wind  sighing  in  the 
trees.  Again  Eve  awakened  Adam,  saying:  hearken,  and 
Adam  answered :  it  is  not  he  but  a  pebble  fallen  from  the 
roof.  Again  they  were  awakened:  a  bird  or  bat,  Adam 
said,  may  have  come,  but  it  has  gone  again.    Sleep  on. 

A  day  passed  and  another  without  seeing  him,  and 
they  had  begun  to  despair  of  ever  seeing  him  again,  when 
their  despair  passed  into  joy  for  they  saw  him  coming 
towards  them  thinking  more  of  his  warm  bed  of  leaves 
than  of  them.  But  he  had  come  back  and  they  excused 
his  heartlessness,  Eve  saying:  he  has  been  thrown  about 
by  the  current  and  is  well  tired.  This  might  well  have 
been  so  for  the  river  was  in  flood,  and  even  an  otter  can- 
not swim  against  a  current  flowing  heavily  against  him. 
Let  him  lie  and  rest  himself,  and  while  resting,  Eve  con- 
tinued: do  thou  be  fishing  for  him  in  the  river  with  the 
new  spear  and  if  thou  canst  catch  fish  for  him  we  may 
keep  him  in  the  cave  always.     And  Eve  waited  while 


242      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

Adam  fished,  but  he  brought  no  fish  home  with  him,  and 
Othniel,  waking  hungry  in  the  evening,  was  taken  to  the 
river.  Canst  not  see,  Eve  said,  how  turbulent  is  the 
water?  the  river  is  no  longer  the  same  river;  the  banks 
are  overflowed  and  the  edges  thronged  with  birds — birds 
we  have  never  seen  before.  These  come  up  the  river, 
Adam  answered  her,  when  the  cold  weather  is  near. 


CHAPTER  38. 

THE  rainy  season  began  soon  after,  and  the  river  rose 
steadily  day  after  day,  till  Adam  was  of  a  mind  that 
it  would  be  safer  to  move  up  the  hill-side  to  Iahveh's 
altar  than  to  remain  in  the  clough  in  which  they  might 
be  easily  drowned;  even  Othniel,  Adam  said,  great  a 
swimmer  as  he  was,  could  not  contend  against  the  waters 
as  they  are  now  running.  Again  and  again  he  thrust  his 
spear  into  the  pools,  but  the  fishes  had  sought  to  escape 
the  force  of  the  flood  by  sinking  to  the  bottom,  and  to 
get  himself  a  dinner,  Othniel  ascended  the  river  and  re- 
mained away  for  days  over  the  hill-side,  fishing  being 
easier  higher  up  the  stream;  and  when  he  returned  he 
was  so  tired  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  not  be  able 
to  sleep  off  his  weariness.  They  were  glad  of  this  for  the 
storms  continued  despite  their  prayers  to  Iahveh;  it 
were  better  they  said  that  Othniel  should  fast  than  that 
he  should  drown;  and  very  hungry,  indeed,  he  was  when 
a  sweet  south- wind  began  to  blow  over  the  garden.  He 
caught  his  dinner  quickly  and  they  thought  to  persuade 
him  to  leave  the  river;  but  deaf  to  all  callings,  he  lin- 
gered by  the  brink,  loth  to  leave  it.  For  him  every 
breeze  seemed  to  be  laden  with  tidings,  and  with  beating 
hearts  they  watched  him  sniffing  through  the  reeds.  He 
is  not  seeking  fishes,  but  his  kin,  Eve  said,  and  a  few 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      243 

days  after,  an  otter  that  had  doubtless  scented  him  from 
afar,  belike  from  the  banks  of  the  islands  beyond  the 
walls,  met  him  in  the  current,  and  the  otters  went  away 
together. 

The  river  brought  him  to  us,  Eve  said;  the  river  has 
taken  him  from  us;  under  yonder  bank  they  will  beget 
young.  As  these  words  were  spoken  it  fell  out  that 
Adam's  eyes  should  meet  Eve's  and  they  knew  that  the 
same  suffering  as  had  befallen  Othniel  was  upon  them. 

Adam's  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  it 
was  with  an  effort  that  he  threw  out  some  words  to  Eve, 
hoping  thereby  to  hide  his  trouble  from  her.  He  will 
weary  of  his  mate,  Eve,  he  said,  and  he  would  have  con- 
tinued to  reassure  her,  but  Eve's  eyes  were  upon  him.  It 
is,  perhaps,  Iahveh's  will  to  enlighten  us,  he  said:  so  let 
us  go  to  his  altar,  and  pray  that  he  may  do  so.  We  were 
there  this  morning,  Eve  answered.  But  we  did  not  pray 
that  we  might  be  enlightened,  he  replied.  Our  prayers 
this  morning  were  not  heart-felt  prayers,  therefore  Iahveh 
did  not  hearken  to  us.  And  so  that  we  may  be  enlight- 
ened, Eve  said,  I  will  cast  myself  before  him  and  bow 
myself  three  times,  and  repeat  the  prayers  thou  hast 
taught  me.  Let  us  go  to  the  praying  stone,  and  they 
went  thither,  and  so  heart-felt  were  Eve's  utterances  of 
the  prayers  he  had  taught  her  that  Adam,  on  rising  to 
his  feet,  was  moved  to  draw  her  to  him,  and  to  kiss  her 
again  and  again;  and  the  emotion  that  their  prayers  to 
Iahveh  had  caused  continued  while  they  descended  the 
hill-side;  and  it  was  on  their  way  to  the  fig-trees  that 
Adam  said:  see,  Eve,  how  large  the  leaves  are  already, 
and  in  my  prayers  on  the  mount  I  heard  Iahveh  com- 
mand us  to  weave  garlands  and  wear  them  about  our 
middles.  Eve  asked  if  the  garland  she  had  woven  for 
her  hair  were  not  enough.  Adam  answered :  Iahveh  said 
about  our  middles.  And  when  we  go  fishing,  Eve  persist- 
ed, may  we  not  leave  our  garlands  on  the  bank?    Adam 


244      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

could  not  answer  her,  nor  when  she  asked  if  the  water 
were  to  wash  away  their  garlands  would  they  be  answer- 
able for  the  loss  of  them.  While  climbing  up  the  bank, 
she  persisted,  we  shall  be  naked.  No  matter,  the  cold 
water  will  subdue  us,  Adam  said.  Eve  was  minded  to 
reply:  the  water  will  grow  warmer,  which  it  did,  and 
when  in  it  our  trouble  begin,  if  perchance  shoulder  should 
touch  shoulder. 

The  Lord  punishes  us,  Adam  cried,  for  our  transgres- 
sions. But  we  have  not  transgressed,  Eve  answered. 
Why  should  he  punish  us?  The  ways  of  the  lord  are 
mysterious,  we  may  not  strive  to  look  into  his  heart, 
Adam  replied,  words  that  brought  no  distinct  meaning 
to  Eve's  mind,  but  she  wished  to  please  Adam,  and  in 
accordance  with  his  wish  she  did  not  gaze  upon  him  as 
she  often  wished  to  do,  but  kept  her  eyes  averted.  It 
was  her  eyes  that  caused  the  rising  of  the  flesh  of  which 
he  was  ashamed,  for  the  lord  had  not  vouchsafed  the 
knowledge  to  him  that  he  had  bestowed  upon  Othniel. 
But  the  day  will  come  when  he  will  reveal  the  secret  to 
us,  said  a  voice  within  him,  and  with  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks  he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  prayed  till  Eve 
could  no  longer  keep  her  thoughts  fixed  on  the  great 
throne  in  which  God  sat  watchful  over  his  creatures,  lest 
they  should  transgress  his  will.  So  Adam  had  told  her, 
this  was  his  belief,  and  it  was  her  desire  to  share  his  be- 
lief, but  a  bird  in  the  lilac  distracted  her  thoughts  from 
God,  for  she  perceived  the  bird  was  building  itself  a  lit- 
tle house  in  the  bush.  It  came  with  fibre  in  its  beak, 
which  it  wove  into  the  moss,  and  the  inside  of  the  nest 
was  plastered  with  clay,  and  when  the  nest  was  finished 
Eve  could  see  the  bird  flattening  itself  out  in  the  nest, 
the  head  only  appearing  above  the  rim,  the  black  eyes 
showing  through  the  green  leaves.  She  told  the  story  of 
the  nest  to  Adam  one  day  after  prayer,  and  they  went  to 
the  lilac  bush  and  finding  five  eggs  in  it,  Eve  said :   let  us 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      245 

not  disturb  her  nest,  for  we  know  not  what  her  design 
may  be. 

The  mate  that  had  helped  to  build  the  nest,  now  sat 
upon  the  bough  above  the  nest,  and  Eve  said:  he  sings 
to  pass  away  the  time  of  her  labour.  But  of  the  design 
of  the  birds  Adam  could  not  tell  Eve;  for  he  had  never 
noticed  the  ways  of  birds  before,  and  was  astonished 
when  Eve  said:  Adam,  the  bird  returns  with  worms  to 
the  nest;  come,  let  us  look  into  it,  for  it  may  contain 
something  that  our  eyes  have  never  seen. 

As  you  have  already  guessed,  Alec,  the  nest  contained 
chicks  all  gaping  to  be  fed,  and  Adam  said  to  Eve:  this 
is  very  wonderful,  and  the  wonder  of  the  twain  seemed 
to  deepen  when  a  cat  came  about  their  tree,  and  the 
parent  birds  came  down  on  to  the  pathway  and  chal- 
lenged it  to  fight,  shrieking  at  it,  bidding  it  go  hence. 
Their  eyes  are  like  the  sparks  we  see  in  the  fire,  Adam 
said,  so  angry  are  they.  How  they  must  love  their  young 
ones,  Eve  answered,  and  a  great  sorrow  fell  upon  Adam 
and  Eve,  and  he  to  himself  and  she  to  herself  said:  why 
have  we  no  offspring  like  the  animals  we  see  about  us? 
The  squirrels  and  the  cats,  and  the  rats  and  the  mice, 
and  the  birds  have  offspring,  and  love  their  offspring; 
only  we  are  alone. 

And  Lilith,  who  saw  all  these  things  in  her  magic  well, 
said:  my  time  has  come  to  go  to  the  garden  and  finish 
the  story. 


CHAPTER  39. 

HE  will  be  somewhere  about  here,  she  said,  watching 
for  his  chance,  for  all  that  is  going  on  in  the  gar- 
den he  knows  well;  and  we  shall  come  upon  each  other 
before  long  for  sure  if  I  keep  marching  up  and  down 
these  woods.    A  pleasant  place  enough  for  walking  they 


246      A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

are,  she  continued,  looking  round,  well  pleased  with  the 
woodland  she  was  in,  for  though  the  trees  were  close  to- 
gether up  above,  there  was  plenty  of  room  for  walking 
between  them — long,  tall  boles  they  were,  as  in  the  park 
over  against  Westport  where  I  met  you,  Alec,  for  the 
first  time,  jumping  from  boulder  to  boulder,  and  climb- 
ing up  the  bank,  saying  you  were  sure  that  the  master 
would  not  mind  your  having  a  look  round  for  ferns. 
That  was  in  the  weeks  back,  and  ever  since  we  have 
been  telling  stories  as  friendly  as  any  two  men  in  the 
country.  It  seems  strange  that  it  should  be  so,  but  so  it 
is;  and  now  I  must  be  getting  on  with  my  story  of  my 
lady  Lilith,  who  was,  at  the  time  I'm  speaking  of,  walk- 
ing under  the  trees  outside  the  garden,  mindful  of  Luci- 
fer, whom  she  knew  to  be  about  somewhere,  and  not  far 
off,  for  she  could  get  a  smell  of  him  in  the  air,  and  walk- 
ing on  whither  her  nose  led  her,  she  said:  'tis  thicker 
about  here,  a  sour  smell  like  that  of  a  snake.  But  it  can- 
not be  that,  and  walking  on  farther,  looking  round  at 
every  step  she  took,  she  said:  something  is  here  but  my 
eyes  cannot  find  it,  and  they  have  searched  everywhere 
for  it.  She  walked  on,  her  eyes  always  set  on  the  ground, 
never  thinking  that  the  one  she  was  seeking  might  be  in 
a  tree  till  she  heard  a  voice  speaking  to  her,  saying: 
Lilith,  raise  thine  eyes  and  thou  shalt  find  me,  and  when 
she  raised  her  eyes,  what  do  you  think  she  saw  but  a  big 
green  and  golden  serpent  coiled  about  the  branches  of  a 
cedar  with  one  great  branch  stretched  out  from  the  tree 
itself  right  over  the  garden  wall,  and  the  thought  passed 
through  her  mind  that  it  was  a  convenient  branch  for 
whomsoever  would  pass  over  the  wall  into  the  garden, 
and  that  perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  Lucifer  had 
changed  himself  into  a  big  serpent,  a  serpent  being  able 
to  glide  and  lift  himself,  whereas  a  four-footed  beast,  or 
a  two-footed,  for  a  matter  of  that,  would  be  making  no 
progress  at  all.    Thou  hast  guessed  rightly,  he  said,  an- 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      247 

swering  her  thoughts,  for  Lucifer  being  an  archangel 
could  see  into  the  mind,  and  having  knowledge  of  all  that 
was  accomplishing  on  earth,  said:  right  well  thou  didst 
answer  them,  meaning  the  angels  of  the  Lord. 

Adam  and  Eve  are  at  variance,  he  continued,  each 
with  the  other,  and  with  Iahveh,  who  has  refused  to  tell 
how  Adam  must  conduct  himself  with  Eve  so  as  to  get 
offspring  from  her.  It  is  odd  surely  that  he  should  desire 
offspring  of  that  puny  creature  with  sloping  shoulders 
and  wide  hips,  short  legs  and  very  dirty,  Lilith  rapped 
out,  forgetful  of  the  presence  of  her  lord.  It  is  true  that 
Eve  as  she  came  to  Adam  from  Iahveh's  hands  was  not 
agreeable  to  his  sight  or  smell,  but  a  great  change  has 
come  over  Adam  since  he  washed  her  and  tressed  her 
hair,  Lucifer  replied;  and  her  legs  are  not  shorter  than 
thine  .  .  .  not  in  his  eyes.  Then,  said  Lilith,  Iahveh 
has  put  a  great  spell  upon  him,  blotting  my  image  from 
his  mind.    But  as  soon  as  he  sees  me  he  will  forget  her; 

Iahveh's  spell  is My  plan  is  better  than  a  garden 

broil,  Lucifer  answered,  and  when  Lilith  asked  him  what 
these  plans  were,  he  said  that  his  design  was  to  provide 
Adam  with  the  knowledge  that  God  withheld  from  him. 
I  was  telling  before  the  interruption Master,  for- 
give me,  Lilith  cried,  and  Lucifer  continued :  Adam  went 
to  the  praying  stone  and  prayed  Iahveh  to  tell  him  how 
he  should  love  Eve,  but  he  only  got  commandments  from 
Iahveh:  speak  not  of  cocks  and  hens  to  me,  said  Iahveh; 
thou  shalt  not  tread  thy  wife  as  a  cock  treads  a  hen,  nor 
line  her  as  a  fox  lines  the  vixen,  nor  cover  her  as  the 
stallion  cover  the  mare.  How  then?  said  Adam,  and  at 
this  question  Iahveh  was  angry,  and  with  the  temper 
flying  out  of  both  his  eyes  he  bade  Adam  give  his  com- 
mandments to  Eve,  who  was  waiting  to  hear  the  joyful 
tidings  as  to  the  manner  in  which  it  is  pleasing  to  Iahveh 
that  mortals  should  obtain  offspring. 

Did  Eve  weep,  master,  when  she  heard  that  she  was 


248      A  STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

not  going  to  bear  children?  No,  Lucifer  answered,  she 
answered  Adam  in  words  that  she  knew  would  please 
him,  that  he  would  do  well  to  observe  the  will  of  God, 
and  to  make  it  easier  for  him,  she  said,  that  she  loved 
him  sufficiently  to  live  with  him  though  he  may  never 
make  a  woman  of  her.  Cunning  little  minx,  Lilith  cried, 
she  tries  to  keep  the  man  by  agreeing  with  him  in  every- 
thing he  says,  and  submitting  to  him  in  all  things.  But 
why,  she  asked,  does  Iahveh  refuse  to  allow  Adam  and 
Eve  to  have  children?  For  that  he  is  tired  of  the  long 
struggle  he  had  before  he  was  able  to  throw  us  into  hell, 
Lucifer  replied,  and  yearns  to  live  at  peace  among  his 
angels,  but  the  victor  is  never  altogether  victorious. 
Ever  since  our  overthrow  Adam  has  been  a  perplexity  to 
him,  and  the  perplexity  has  deepened  since  Adam  asked 
him  how  he  might  procure  offspring.  Iahveh  is  afraid 
that  the  new  race  may  take  our  side,  and  together  we 
might  succeed  in  giving  him  a  fall.  Iahveh,  Lucifer  con- 
tinued, is  great  at  present,  but  there  is  a  fate  over  the 
God,  and  he  that  is  now  on  high  lives  in  fear  of  a  race  of 
unbelievers;  to  save  himself  he  would  forbid  man  to  eat 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge.  I  will  cross  the  garden  wall 
and  reveal  the  secret,  Lilith  cried.  But,  said  Lucifer, 
Adam  will  know  thee  as  his  dream  of  old  time.  God  has 
put  a  spell  on  him,  said  Lilith.  Maybe  he  did,  but  I'm 
not  sure  of  it,  Lucifer  replied.  Well,  what  shall  we  do? 
she  asked,  and  Lucifer  said:  by  a  stealthier  method  than 
by  giving  Adam  the  choice  between  thee  and  Eve,  for 
remember  that  if  he  were  to  choose  Eve  we  should  be 
undone.  I  have  thought  of  a  better  way,  and  for  it  I 
shall  confide  my  snake  shape  to  thee;  in  it  thou  shalt 
cross  the  garden  wall,  and  as  soon  as  Adam  passes  by  the 
tree  in  which  thou  art  hidden  thou  shalt  lean  out  of  the 
branch,  and  say:  Adam,  why  so  downcast,  why  so  hope- 
less?   Give  thine  ear  to  me  and  learn  the  secret. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      249 


CHAPTER  40. 

BUT  before  going  on  further  with  the  story,  Alec,  I 
think  I  would  like  to  give  my  legs  a  stretch.  If  your 
honour  has  a  match  about  you  I'd  be  glad  to  have  a 
shaugh  at  the  pipe.  I'd  like  a  smoke,  too,  I  answered,  a 
cigarette!  A  cigar  will  take  too  long;  and  to  keep  Alec 
in  good  humour  I  spoke  of  Liadin  and  Curithir  and  the 
throbbing  love  night  they  had  passed  together,  and  Alec 
promised  to  give  me  his  opinion  of  my  story  when  I  had 
finished  it.  I  like  the  stipulation;  and,  Alec,  you're  a 
good  listener.  A  story-teller  must  know  how  to  listen, 
he  answered,  for  'tis  out  of  stories  a  story  comes.  A 
maxim  that  deserves  all  my  congratulations,  I  said,  and 
as  soon  as  we  had  finished  smoking,  I  reminded  him  that 
Lilith,  after  exchanging  shapes  with  Lucifer,  coiled  her- 
self into  a  tree  within  hearing  distance  of  the  flowering 
bank  on  which  Adam  and  Eve  were  sitting,  Adam  look- 
ing into  the  depths  of  the  wood  disconsolate,  making  up 
a  story  about  a  little  bird  that  might  come  hopping 
along  the  branches  and  let  out  the  secret  to  him.  A  wel- 
come bird  he  would  be,  by  my  faith,  cherished  by  the 
two  of  us,  and  allowed  to  eat  his  fill  of  the  fruit  trees. 
But  neither  bird  nor  beast  will  come  to  our  aid,  and 
Adam  continued  to  sit  with  his  eyes  averted  from  Eve, 
who,  having  pity  for  him,  was  thinking  what  she  could 
say  to  console  him,  but  everything  that  came  into  her 
head  she  threw  out  as  likely  to  wound  his  feelings;  till  at 
last  the  silence  seemed  to  her  to  be  worse  than  anything 
she  could  say,  and  convinced  that  she  could  not  leave 
him  thinking  any  more  she  began  talking  to  him  about 
Lilith.  And  as  soon  as  the  name  passed  her  lips  she  be- 
gan saying  to  herself  that  Adam  would  not  like  to  speak 
of  Lilith,  who  might  have  left  him  for  the  reason  that  he 
did  not  know  what  the  birds  knew  and  all  the  beasts. 


250      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

But  she  was  wrong  in  this,  for  Adam  liked  talking  about 
Lilith,  and  Eve  was  glad  to  see  his  face  brighten,  al- 
though it  was  hard  to  keep  her  jealousy  from  gathering 
in  her  face.  She  talked  about  Lilith  soothingly,  saying 
that  she  believed  her  to  be  a  woman  tall  and  thin  as  far 
as  one  could  see  through  the  mist  that  was  about  her 
always.  'Tis  as  if  thou  hadst  seen  her,  Adam  chimed  in, 
for  she  would  steal  upon  me  like  a  mist  in  which  I  could 
see  only  a  beautiful  line  of  chin  and  ear;  like  those  hills 
far  away  in  the  blue  distance,  he  said.  It  was  never  in 
waking  but  in  dreams  that  thou  knewest  her,  Eve  said. 
In  dreams  and  between  dreaming  and  waking.  .  .  . 
Yet  we  walked  in  the  garden  together.  You  spoke  to- 
gether? Eve  queried,  and  Adam  told  Eve  that  he  remem- 
bered Lilith's  voice  and  her  silences.  I  do  not  know  how 
she  came,  or  whether  it  was  out  of  the  sky  or  out  of  the 
trees,  but  she  came  to  me.  And  thou  wast  happy  with 
her?  I  was  happy  and  I  was  unhappy,  Adam  answered. 
Dost  think,  Adam,  Eve  asked  sadly,  that  I  was  made  to 
make  thee  unhappy?  Ah,  Eve,  thou  art  blaming  me 
now  as  Lilith  used  to  do,  Adam  answered,  and  I'm  think- 
ing that  all  women  are  alike.  I  will  try  to  tell  thee 
everything,  but  it  is  hard  to  tell  Lilith,  for  she  is  only 
clear  to  a  man  when  he  is  not  thinking  about  her  at  all. 
As  soon  as  he  tries  to  see  or  hear  her  she  has  gone.  I 
would  tell  all  I  know  lest  thou  shouldst  think  that  I  am 
keeping  something  back.  Adam,  I  understand.  But  I 
haven't  told  thee  that  my  love  for  thee  is  different  from 
my  love  for  her.  I  only  loved  her  as  we  love  the  clouds; 
thou'rt  here  and  kind  and  good,  but  Lilith  was  cruel  and 
wicked,  and  when  she  was  here  she  was  yonder  too.  I 
could  not  lay  hold  on  her,  but  thou  I  canst  hold  and  see 
and  hear.  She  was  only  a  beam  of  moonlight.  I  read 
in  thine  eyes  that  a  gleam  from  the  moon  is  better  than 
the  shining  of  midday  to  a  man.  Why  wouldst  thou  put 
thoughts  into  my  head  that  were  never  there?  she  said. 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      251 

If  I  am  satisfied,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dissatisfied?  I 
will  try  to  be  satisfied,  he  replied,  and  if  anybody  canst 
help  me  it  is  thou,  with  thy  sweet,  gentle  eyes  and  kindly 
hands.  Lay  thy  hand  upon  my  forehead  for  my  head  is 
hot,  I  wouldst  sleep  a  little,  but  before  I  sleep,  tell  me, 
Eve,  that  knowledge  is  not  always  better  than  ignorance 
and  that  if  we  knew  what  the  birds  and  beasts  know  and 
the  knowledge  gave  us  offspring  our  happiness  would  not 
be  greater  than  it  has  been.  And  he  gazed  into  her  eyes 
as  if  he  would  read  her  answer  therein.  I  love  thee  well 
enough  to  live  with  thee,  though  my  life  go  by  without 
offspring,  her  eyes  said. 

At  that  moment  two  doves  came  down  from  the 
branches,  love  being  easier  on  the  ground  than  at  perch. 
If  he  turn  his  head,  she  said,  and  sees  those  birds,  the 
sight  of  them  will  recall  Iahveh's  commandment.  Would 
that  they  were  not  so  noisy  in  their  love,  she  continued 
to  herself,  the  wood  resounds  with  their  kisses;  if  he  turn 
his  head  he  will  deem  the  birds  were  sent  to  make  a 
mock  of  him.  Alas,  said  Adam,  turning  at  the  moment 
when  the  cock  was  treading  the  hen,  these  birds  are  more 
knowledgeable  than  we  are.  Shall  we  take  our  knowl- 
edge from  them,  and  kiss  as  they  kiss?  And  Eve,  noth- 
ing loth,  took  Adam  in  her  arms,  and  having  kissed  as 
they  had  seen  the  doves  kiss,  and  suffered  thereby  many 
great  and  terrible  piercings,  she  fell  back  in  front  of  him 
like  the  hen.  But  Adam  in  this  last  moment  remem- 
bered Iahveh's  commandment,  and  a  gloom  beset  his 
face.  It  may  be  that  we  shall  be  guilty  of  some  great 
transgression,  he  said.  Of  what  transgression  shall  we 
be  guilty?  Eve  asked.  Adam  could  not  answer  her,  and 
so  they  sat  estranged  from  each  other  until,  unable  to 
bear  the  estrangement  any  longer,  Adam  ran  away 
through  the  trees  up  the  steep  path  to  the  praying  stone, 
leaving  Eve  absorbed  in  the  thought  that  it  might  fall 
out  that  the  end  of  all  this  would  be  that  they  would  live 


252      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

on  different  sides  of  the  garden,  seeing  each  other  in 
glimpses  only,  she  said,  and  she  asked  herself  if  the 
meaning  behind  it  all  was  that  Iahveh  created  her  so 
that  he  might  punish  Adam  because  he  had  not  joined 
him  against  Lucifer. 

The  thought  that  it  might  be  so  brought  tears  to  her 
eyelids  and  she  retired  into  the  grove  and  wept  unre- 
strainedly; and  when  there  were  no  more  tears  for  her  to 
weep,  her  heart  was  moved  to  a  great  pity  for  the  man 
who  could  not  live  enjoying  things  as  they  went  by,  but 
must  needs  pray.  He  will  not  come  to  me,  said  her  fail- 
ing heart,  but  she  waited  for  him  till  the  moonlight  van- 
ished. He  will  not  come  to  me;  he  fears  Iahveh  more 
than  he  loves  me.  Ah !  now  he  has  fallen  back,  overcome 
with  weariness,  but  as  soon  as  he  awakes  he  will  pray 
again.  If  I  do  not  leave  some  fruit  for  him  he  will  not 
eat  to-morrow. 


CHAPTER  41. 

HE  has  put  the  river  between  us,  and  we  shall  not  see 
each  other  again  but  in  glimpses,  Eve  said,  as  she 
walked  absorbed  in  the  mystery  of  God  and  man,  asking 
herself  why  Iahveh  should  trouble  himself  as  to  their 
conduct  on  earth;  for  having  exiled  Adam,  it  would  seem 
that  he  should  be  content  to  allow  them  to  live  according 
to  the  ways  of  the  earth.  She  repeated  the  sacred  name, 
and  her  unconcern  in  it  reminded  her  of  Adam's  alarm 
when  she  had  repeated  it  casually  after  hearing  it  from 
him  for  the  first  time. 

Iahveh  is  always  the  centre  of  Adam's  thoughts,  she 
muttered,  and  the  stone  altar  came  into  her  thoughts, 
and  the  day  he  had  been  propelled  thither  by  fear  of 
Iahveh;  but  there  had  been  no  fear  in  her  mind;  she  had 
prayed  because  she  had  to  live  with  Adam,  and  having 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      253 

to  live  with  him,  she  must  make  herself  according  to  his 
likeness  as  far  as  possible.  But  if  Iahveh  comes  between 
us  always,  there  is  no  life  for  me;  and  the  task  of  win- 
ning him  from  Iahveh  seemed  beyond  her  strength.  But 
if  I  can  discover  the  secret  he  withholds  from  us,  his 
power  over  Adam  will  be  lessened,  she  said;  and  she 
roamed  the  garden,  continuing  her  search,  sure  at  noon 
that  love  was  stronger  than  hate,  but  at  night,  lying 
where  they  had  so  often  lain  together  on  the  bank  under 
the  fig-trees,  she  cried:  Iahveh  is  over  all,  and  missing 
Adam  by  her  when  she  awoke,  tears  flowed  over  her  eye- 
lids again;  she  often  thought  that  her  heart  would  break, 
and  it  might  have  broken  if  her  courage  had  been  less 
than  her  love.  My  task  is  to  save  him,  she  said,  from 
Iahveh,  and  if  I  am  borne  away  and  dashed  against  the 
rocks,  and  whirled  on  and  on  till  darkness  falls  over  me, 
our  troubles  will  be  ended. 

It  was  with  these  very  words,  Alec,  that  she  turned 
down  the  hill-side  towards  the  river,  and  finding  a  place 
that  seemed  shallow  she  waded  into  the  stream,  but  did 
not  reach  the  middle  of  it,  when  she  slipped  into  a  deep 
swirl  of  waters  against  which  she  strove  but  was  sucked 
under  and  came  up  again  and  sank  again,  all  the  while 
sore  afraid  that  she  would  never  look  upon  Adam  again, 
which  she  would  not  have  done  if  he  had  not  come  to  her 
and  put  his  hand  under  her  chin,  in  that  way  upholding  her. 

Neither  to  that  bank  must  I  take  thee,  Adam  said, 
nor  to  the  bank  on  which  I  left  thee.  But  there  are 
rocks  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and  upon  them  thou 
and  I  can  talk  if  thou  wishest  to  talk  to  me.  If  I  wish  to 
talk  to  thee?  she  repeated,  and  her  look  smote  him  to  the 
heart.  Why  didst  thou  venture  into  the  river  and  it  in 
flood?  he  asked,  when  they  were  seated  on  the  rocks.  I 
was  looking  for  thee,  she  said.  The  fruits  I  left  for  thee 
by  the  praying  stone  were  untouched,  so  it  cannot  be 
else,  I  said  to  myself,  than  that  he  has  put  the  river  be- 


254      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

tween  us.  And  was  not  that  well  done?  Adam  replied. 
Should  we  not  be  thankful  to  Iahveh  that  he  set  a  river 
flowing  through  Eden :  for  it  is  his  will  that  we  must  live 
asunder  like  a  pair  of  trees  lest  we  break  his  command- 
ment. 

Everything  must  be  as  thou  wouldst  wish  it  to  be, 
Adam.    But  how  are  we  to  live  apart? 

We  shall  have  to  make  two  hoards  of  fruit,  Adam  re- 
plied, on  which  we  shall  live  through  the  winter  when 
there  is  little  fruit,  or  none  at  all,  on  the  trees.  But  I 
know  not  how  to  make  a  hoard.  I  will  teach  thee.  The 
grapes  will  be  ripe  in  a  month  from  now,  and  they  must 
be  gathered  and  dried  in  the  sun;  the  figs  the  same.  The 
apples  too  may  be  saved.  We  shall  sit  on  these  stones, 
for  this  is  the  meering;  and  thou'lt  learn  from  me  how 
these  things  may  be  done  and  to  live  without  me. 
Thou'lt  be  lonely,  no  doubt,  without  me;  the  days  will 
seem  long  and  the  nights  too;  but  there  is  no  other  way. 
It  shall  be  as  thou  sayest,  she  answered,  and  her  arms 
went  about  him:  it  shall  be  as  thou  sayest.  But  do  not 
make  it  harder  for  me,  Adam  said,  and  to  disguise  his 
great  love  of  her  he  plunged  into  the  pool.  But  after  a 
little  while  he  returned  to  her.  We  must  try  and  bear 
our  lives  and  live  them  as  Iahveh  seems  to  have  willed 
that  we  should  live  them.  Thou  shalt  live  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  river  and  I  on  the  left  bank,  but  we  shall 
meet  here  on  these  rocks,  he  said,  and  I  will  instruct  thee 
about  the  drying  of  fruits  and  thou  canst  make  thyself 
comfortable  in  the  hut  that  we  built  last  autumn  to- 
gether. I  shall  build  another  hut  on  my  side.  But  tell 
me,  she  said,  how  I  may  reach  my  bank.  The  current 
frightens  me.  I  will  swim  with  thee  through  the  places 
where  the  river  is  deep  and  strong,  and  when  thou'rt  on 
the  gravelly  bank  I  will  return  unto  the  river,  and  re- 
main on  my  side  of  it  till  thou  comest  out  on  to  those 
rocks,  which  thou  wilt  do  when  thou  hast  need  of  me. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      255 

It  would  have  been  better,  Eve  thought,  as  she  re- 
turned to  the  grove  in  which  they  had  spent  so  many 
happy  hours,  if  he  had  left  me  to  drown  in  that  pool,  for 
it  would  seem  that  man  is  made  to  make  woman  un- 
happy. But  must  we,  she  asked  herself,  be  always  un- 
happy? It  cannot  be  that  there  is  no  way  out  of  this 
trouble.  It  cannot  be  that  we  who  are  more  intelligent 
than  the  birds  and  beasts  should  not  find  it,  and  she 
went  about  the  garden  watching  all  these,  and  when  she 
was  not  watching  the  beasts  and  birds,  she  gathered  such 
fruits  as  were  ripe,  and  stored  them  as  he  had  bidden 
her  to  do,  and  took  pleasure  in  so  doing,  for  she  was 
doing  his  will.  But  the  nights  were  long,  and  the  calm 
dawns  miserable  to  behold.  At  last  remembrance  came 
out  of  misery:  he  had  told  her  that  he  would  show  her 
how  the  fruit  should  be  stored ! 

Adam!  Adam!  she  cried.  And  she  had  not  to  speak 
his  name  a  third  time  before  she  saw  his  head  above  the 
water,  and  he  rushing  through  it  like  a  fish,  so  eager  was 
he  to  be  with  her. 

As  soon  as  he  had  climbed  up  beside  her  and  shaken 
the  water  from  his  hair  and  beard  they  began  to  talk  of 
the  fruit  she  had  gathered  and  the  roof  of  the  house  in 
which  she  lived.  At  last  he  said:  thou  hast  wandered 
much  in  the  garden.  Yes;  and  have  seen  much,  she  an- 
swered him;  birds  and  squirrels  and  mice  and  rats,  cock- 
chafers, beetles  and  the  ordinary  fly.  But  we  are  not  as 
these  and  have  been  commanded  to  abstain  from  imi- 
tating them  in  their  swyvings,  he  said.  Cats,  she  said, 
come  over  the  wall  screaming  after  each  other.  But  we 
are  commanded,  he  said,  by  the  God,  to  abstain  till  he 
reveals  the  secret  of  love And  of  offspring,  she  in- 
terjected. She  had  seen  from  a  gap  in  the  walls  a  herd 
of  great  animals  with  long  hairy  tails  on  their  rumps  and 
on  their  necks  a  yard  of  hair. 

Among  these  was  one  taller,  handsomer,  more  power- 


256      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

ful  than  the  others,  a  sort  of  master  among  them  and 
one  day  she  said  he  came  whinnying,  his  ears  cocked  to 
meet  a  female.  I  judged  her  to  be  one,  she  being  small- 
er, smoother,  daintier  than  he  was,  like  unto  him  as  I 
am  to  thee,  Adam.  A  strange  match  they  made  as  they 
stood  nosing  each  other,  she  shy,  diffident,  he  eager  and 
valiant,  yet  gentle  with  her  always,  though  she  was 
rough  and  angry  with  him,  squealing  betimes  and  kick- 
ing at  him  till  at  last,  like  one  that  accepts  another's  will, 
he  drew  away  from  her,  regretfully,  I  thought,  and  then 
like  one  that  had  forgotten  he  began  to  graze  a  bit  away. 
But  he  was  only  pretending  to  have  forgotten  her,  for 
when  she  came  forward,  trying  to  entice  him  back  to 
her,  I  could  see  that  he  was  watching  her,  and  every 
moment  I  expected  him  to  leave  off  feeding,  but  it  was  a 
long  time  before  she  could  get  him  to  notice  her.  At 
last  she  succeeded  in  enticing  him  from  his  feed ;  and  this 
time  he  was  bolder  with  her,  beginning  at  once  to  bite 
her  in  the  chest,  in  play,  of  course;  licking  her  sides  and 
biting  her  again.  She  seemed  to  like  his  play;  his  cosen- 
ing  seemed  to  her  taste;  but  when  he  came  to  her 
haunches  she  squealed  and  kicked,  without  striking  him, 
however,  misdirecting  her  kicks  perhaps  of  set  purpose. 
And  this  play  was  continued  for  several  days,  she  always 
inviting  his  intentions  and  never  resenting  them  till  he 
tried  to  throw  his  fore-leg  over  her.  The  days  went  by, 
ripening  her,  and  when  her  time  was  come  he  rose  him- 
self up  and,  gripping  her  by  the  neck,  he  went  in  unto 
her,  hugging  her  the  while.  And  then?  said  Adam. 
Then,  Eve  answered,  he  dropped  exhausted  on  his 
hooves,  and  they  sniffed  at  each  other  once  or  twice  before 
beginning  to  graze,  keeping  together  apart  from  the  herd. 
But  of  what  concern  to  us  are  the  ways  of  beasts? 
Adam  said,  and  hast  thou  forgotten  Iahveh's  command- 
ments? It  may  be,  she  answered,  that  the  God  put  a 
wall  round  the  garden,  but  when  thou'rt  not  by  me  I 


A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY      257 

forget  these  things.  I  knew  of  God  only  through  thee, 
and  am  different  from  thee  inasmuch  as  thou  wast  an 
angel  once  in  heaven,  but  I'm  a  rib  taken  from  thy  side 
else  a  handful  of  dust.  For  thou  knowest  not  exactly 
how  God  created  me,  only  that  when  thine  eyes  opened 
I  was  sleeping  by  thee.  Wouldst  thou,  Eve,  have  me 
return  to  the  other  bank  and  live  with  thee  like  a  beast? 
It  shall  be  as  thou  dost  wish  it,  Adam.  And  it  being  my 
wish  always  that  thou  shouldst  be  happy,  or  at  least  as 
little  unhappy  as  may  be,  I  would  have  thee  go  to  him 
with  no  desire  in  thy  heart  but  obedience  to  his  will  only. 
Adam,  leave  me,  Eve  cried,  but  let  me  come  to-morrow 
to  these  rocks,  for  though  they  are  hard  to  sit  upon  it  is 
better  to  see  thee  here  than  not  to  see  thee  at  all. 

Thou  mayest  come  here  if  thou  wilt  strive  to  make 

Iahveh's  will  thine  and What  else,  Adam,  is  upon 

thy  mind  to  tell  me?  Only  this,  Eve,  that  having  looked 
over  the  wall,  a  thing  that  Iahveh  has  forbidden,  it  may 
fall  out  that  in  thy  wanderings  a  voice  may  speak  to  thee 
out  of  a  tree.  Hast  heard  a  voice,  Adam,  speaking  out 
of  yon  trees?  And  Adam  answered  that  it  had  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  heard  a  voice  speaking  out  of  a  tree, 
saying  he  had  but  to  listen  to  hear  the  secret.  And  thou 
didst  not  listen?  Eve  said.  Iahveh  forbid,  he  answered. 
And  then  thou  fleddest,  she  said,  to  the  thither  side, 
leaving  the  praying  stone  without  offering.  I  had  hoped 
to  find  another,  he  answered,  and  Eve,  guessing  that  the 
desire  of  prayer  was  again  upon  him,  said:  why  not 
cross  the  river  for  prayer?  The  evening  skies  are  calm, 
and  thy  prayer  will  go  up  to  Iahveh's  nostrils  and  re- 
fresh him. 

With  words  like  these  I'm  telling  she  beguiled  him 
over  to  her  side  of  the  river,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  him 
going  up  the  hill-side  with  the  fruits  she  had  given  him 
for  offering  her  eyes  turned  to  the  trees  out  of  which  the 
voice  had  spoken  to  him.    The  voice  that  he  heard  can 


258      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

only  be  Lilith's,  she  said,  who  would  not  have  Adam 
withhold  himself  from  me  any  longer,  he  having  by  now 
descended  altogether  out  of  angel  kind  into  man  kind. 
So  she  went  to  the  tree  that  Adam  had  pointed  out  to 
her  as  the  one  out  of  which  he  had  heard  the  voice 
speak:  whosoever  is  in  this  tree,  let  her  or  him  tell  me 
how  I  may  be  Adam's  wife,  and  get  offspring  like  the 
birds  and  the  beasts,  she  cried,  and  as  soon  as  the  snake 
heard  Eve,  she  stretched  herself  along  the  bough,  and 
dropping  a  yard  or  two  of  herself  said:  I  am  Lilith, 
who  was  Adam's  first  wife,  but  in  his  mind  rather  than 
in  his  body.  Lean  thy  ear  closer,  lest  Iahveh  should  hear 
and  send  angels  to  hunt  me  into  hell  again.  Eve  gave 
her  ear,  and,  having  learnt  from  Lilith  the  way  of  man 
with  a  woman,  she  waited  for  Adam  to  return  from  the 
altar,  all  the  while  turning  over  in  her  mind  the  delight- 
ful modes  of  love  she  had  learnt  from  Lilith. 

Adam  came  to  her  full  of  God  and  unsuspicious,  say- 
ing that  after  prayer  he  had  bethought  himself  of  the 
house  they  had  lived  in  last  winter,  and  how  it  might  be 
repaired.  If  the  wind  comes  under  the  door  thou'lt  come 
to  the  river  and  cry  aloud  for  me,  and  it  will  not  be  long 
before  I'm  swimming  to  thee,  though  the  floods  be  great 
in  winter-time.  The  words  came  to  Eve's  lips  to  thank 
him,  but  she  kept  them  back,  and  they  walked  to  the 
house  in  silence.  Thou'lt  be  building  a  house,  she  said, 
for  thyself  as  good  as  this  one,  one  that  will  be  rain  and 
wind  tight,  and  he  answered  that  it  was  as  likely  as  not 
he  would  be  building  something,  but  he  did  not  mind 
the  wind  and  rain,  he  was  pretty  tough,  he  said.  But 
thou'lt  find  the  cold  weather  hard  to  bear,  and  his  eyes 
going  round  the  store  of  fruit  she  had  laid  in,  he  said: 
thou  hast  not  gotten  enough  of  this  fruit  to  feed  thee 
through  the  winter,  more  should  be  gathered;  and  they 
went  through  the  garden  shaking  the  boughs  and  gather- 
ing the  fruit  till  the  kindling  of  the  evening  star. 


A   STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      259 

It  was  then  in  the  dusk  that  Adam  showed  Eve  how 
she  should  store  the  fruit,  and  when  it  was  laid  by  for 
the  winter  the  perplexed  twain  wandered  from  the  house 
to  the  bank  under  the  fig-tree,  and  with  Adam  by  her 
side  Eve  was  moved  to  tell  him  she  had  discovered  the 
secret,  but  she  withheld  it  from  him,  afraid  to  speak  to 
him,  so  easily  was  he  led  away  by  words;  but  in  spite  of 
her  silence,  perhaps  because  of  it,  he  began  to  speak  once 
more  of  lahveh's  providence  and  his  design,  saying: 
Eve,  if  it  be  within  his  design  that  we  beget  children  the 
secret  how  we  shall  beget  them  will  not  be  withheld  from 
us.  Adam,  she  answered,  I  cannot  talk  any  more,  and 
fell  back  amid  the  mosses  and  he  over  her.  Thou'rt  not 
upon  my  back  for  that  is  forbidden,  yet  we  are  mingled; 
belly  to  belly  we  lie,  and  guiding  him  a  little  she  said: 
therein  is  the  secret,  art  pleased  with  it?  His  ardour  was 
her  answer,  and  his  joy  was  so  great  that  he  could  not 
get  a  word  past  his  teeth,  and  when  relief  came  they  lay 
side  by  side,  enchanted  lovers,  listening  to  the  breeze 
that  raised  the  leaves  of  the  fig-tree,  letting  the  moon- 
light through. 

May  we  not,  he  asked,  discover  the  secret  again?  Will 
the  delight  be  as  great?  And  she  answered:  we  shall 
know  that  presently,  and  her  arms  went  about  him;  and 
their  delight  was  greater  than  before,  and  when  they  re- 
turned to  rediscover  the  secret  for  a  third  time,  Eve 
screamed  she  knew  not  whether  it  was  from  pain  or 
pleasure,  and  her  scream  was  so  heartrending  that  Adam 
was  frightened,  and  thinking  he  had  killed  his  wife  he 
sat  up  on  the  bank  of  delight  and  began  to  pray.  But 
seeing  he  had  done  her  no  harm  at  all,  he  said:  it  is 
against  God  I  have  sinned,  and  my  sin  might  never  have 
been  known  if  Eve  hadn't  yelled  that  terrible,  awful  yell, 
that  may  have  awakened  Iahveh  dozing  in  his  golden 
chair,  and  that  misfortune  has  surely  befallen  us,  he  will 
be  sending  his  angels  with  flaming  swords  to  sever  off  our 


260      A   STORY-TELLER'S   HOLIDAY 

heads.  You  see,  Adam  was  well  learned  in  the  ways  of 
God.  But  Lucifer,  too,  had  had  a  long  experience  of 
heaven;  and  while  Michael,  Gabriel  and  Raphael  were 
girding  on  their  flaming  swords  he  said:  we  must  hide 
Adam  and  Eve  from  God's  angels,  who  will  destroy  them 
and  the  seed  of  the  new  race  that  will  bring  about 
Iahveh's  downfall  in  the  years  to  come.  Lilith  answered : 
master,  as  thou  wilt. 


CHAPTER  42. 

BEFORE  the  ring  of  day  Adam  and  Eve  were  hidden 
beyond  the  walls  of  the  garden  in  deep  caves,  where 
they  could  not  be  discovered  by  the  angels  in  search  of 
them,  for  when  the  angels  came  into  one  cave,  Adam 
and  Eve  found  outlets  into  other  caves,  and  as  every 
cave  had  two  they  went  hither  and  thither,  escaping  the 
angels  always,  suffering  hunger  and  thirst,  for  outside  of 
the  garden  was  all  wilderness;  only  a  few  berries  and 
roots  could  they  find,  but  fruits  nowhere.  So  it  came  to 
pass  that  in  their  flight  from  the  pursuing  angels  they 
were  several  days  without  even  a  bilberry  or  a  handful  of 
cress  wherewith  to  quench  their  longing:  we  can  go  no 
farther,  Eve,  the  angels  must  take  us  here,  Adam  said. 
And  Eve  answered:  there  is  a  way  out  of  our  trouble; 
and  he  asked  her:  which  way  is  that?  and  Eve  replied: 
the  way  that  we  came  into  it.  And  Adam  said:  I  un- 
derstand thee  not,  and  Eve  said:  was  it  not  I  that 
brought  all  this  trouble  upon  thee?  Was  it  not  I  that 
loved  God  not  at  all  and  would  not  live  according  to  his 
commands?  But,  Eve,  thou  earnest  with  me  to  the  altar 
and  prayed,  and  we  made  offerings  of  fruit  to  Iahveh. 
But  my  heart  was  not  in  prayer,  Adam,  and  the  offer- 
ings to  Iahveh  always  seemed  to  me  a  waste.  Iahveh 
had  no  place  in  my  heart  nor  in  my  thoughts,  and  it  was 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      261 

to  divide  thee  from  Iahveh  that  I  listened  to  Lilith;  for 
in  my  foolishness  I  said:  if  I  bring  the  secret  to  Adam 
he  will  forget  Iahveh.  But  Iahveh  is  all-powerful  and  we 
are  overwhelmed  with  hunger  and  thirst.  I  would  give 
thee  back  to  Iahveh.  .  .  .  How  can  I  be  given  back 
to  Iahveh?  Adam  asked,  and  Eve  answered:  my 
thoughts  are  not  wandering,  Adam,  but  I  would  undo 
the  wrong  I  have  done,  and  the  undoing  can  be  accom- 
plished in  that  river  if  we  can  reach  it.  In  the  pool  from 
which  thou  didst  save  me  I  will  drown,  and  thereby 
Iahveh's  fallen  angel  will  be  restored  to  grace;  he  will  be 
put  back  into  the  garden;  he  will  be  happy  again  amid 
flowers  and  fruits,  and  the  pleasant  rays  that  fall  upon 
the  altar  at  noon  will  draw  him  unto  prayer.  Prayers 
are  dearer  to  thee,  Adam,  than  I  ever  could  be.  Lead 
me  to  the  river,  Adam,  let  one  be  happy  if  both  may  not 
be.  I  am  nothing,  I  was  made  out  of  one  of  thy  ribs  or 
out  of  a  handful  of  mould  by  Iahveh  for  thy  companion- 
ship. I  am  nothing,  but  thou  wast  once  God's  angel. 
God  is  all-powerful.  Let  my  death  give  thee  back  to 
Iahveh.  But,  Eve,  there  is  no  happiness  for  me  on  this 
earth  except  with  thee,  and  hast  no  thought  of  the  child 
in  the  womb?  And  hast  thou  no  love  for  him?  I  have 
love  for  my  child,  but  my  love  of  thee,  Adam,  is  greater, 
and  my  child  must  die  with  me  that  the  world  be  redeemed 
from  sin.  So  it  would  seem.  Iahveh  will  accept  my  death 
as  an  atonement.  Lead  me  to  the  river,  Adam. 

As  we  have  lived  so  we  must  die,  Adam  replied;  and 
the  twain  sat  side  by  side  against  the  rocks,  and  folded 
their  arms  and  waited  for  the  power  of  Iahveh  to  fall 
upon  them.  And  they  did  not  know  how  long  they  had 
waited,  for  time  seemed  at  a  standstill,  but  in  the  midst 
of  their  stupor  they  were  awakened  by  a  voice,  and  Adam 
said  to  Eve:  that  is  no  angel's  voice,  and  Eve  said:  who- 
soever's  voice  it  be  concerns  us  not,  for  the  end  is  nigh. 
Thy  will  be  done,  Adam,  if  it  be  that  thou  shouldst  die 


262       A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

with  me  unrepentant.  But  the  voice  brought  them  life 
in  the  shape  of  a  lamb,  one  of  the  mountain  sheep  that 
the  angels  had  frightened  with  their  flaming  swords.  He 
had  become  lost  in  the  caves,  or  maybe  had  been  sent 
thither,  Alec,  by  Lucifer  himself,  who  looked  to  the 
race  of  men  to  bring  about  the  overthrow  of  lahveh. 
Whosoever  sent  the  lamb,  it  was  the  lamb's  blood  that 
saved  the  twain  in  the  cave  and  assured  the  victory, 
accomplishing  slowly,  but  always  accomplishing  from 
that  day  to  ours,  Alec. 

Since  there  be  no  fruit  in  the  wilderness,  we  must  kill 
and  eat  always,  Adam  said,  and  from  henceforth  his  days 
were  spent  fashioning  weapons,  and  Eve's  in  weaving 
nets,  wherewith  they  were  able  to  encompass  beasts  and 
birds.  So  did  the  twain  live  flying,  from  the  angels  of 
the  lord  from  cave  to  cave,  Eve  bringing  forth  Cain  in 
the  first  year  of  banishment,  and  Abel  in  the  second. 
And  when  daughters  were  born  to  them,  Cain  took  one 
sister  to  lie  with  him;  she  conceived  and  bore  Enoch, 
with  whom  Cain  was  so  well  pleased  that  he  named 
the  city  he  built  after  his  son.  After  Enoch  came  Irad, 
and  Irad  begat  Mehujael;  and  Mehujael  begat  Methusael; 
and  Methusael  begat  Lamech;  and  Lamech  took  unto 
him  two  wives,  the  name  of  one  was  Adah  and  the  name 
of  the  other  was  Zillah,  and  Adah  bore  Jabal.  He  was 
the  father  of  those  that  dwelt  in  tents,  and  his  brother's 
name  was  Jubal,  and  he  was  the  father  of  harp  and  organ 
players;  and  Jubal  bore  Tubal-cain,  the  craftsman  in 
brass  and  iron,  and  the  sister  of  Tubal-cain  was  Maamah. 

Very  soon  the  earth  was  covered  with  men,  and  the 
angels  looked  down  from  heaven,  and  seeing  that  the 
daughters  of  men  were  fair,  they  lusted  after  them,  and 
the  children  that  were  born  of  woman  and  angel  kind 
were  giants,  and  God  said:  the  children  of  these  giants 
will  join  with  Satan's  legions  and  rise  up  against  me. 
My  power  will  be  overthrown!     So  he  called  together 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

his  cohorts,  and  gave  the  command  unto  Michael,  Gabriel 
and  Raphael,  and  these  going  forth  drove  against  the 
celestial  lechers,  surrounded,  overpowered  and  bound  them, 
and  threw  them  into  the  centre  of  the  earth  for  time 
everlasting.  And  Iahveh  said  unto  his  archangels:  you 
have  done  well,  Michael,  Gabriel  and  Raphael,  you  have 
redeemed  my  heaven  of  lewd  angels;  but,  he  said,  the 
giants  still  abound,  and  ye  are  tired  of  long  wars,  so  we 
will  open  the  sources  of  the  sea  and  drown  the  world,  and 
make  an  end  of  man  and  his  evil  deeds.  And  the  angels 
replied :  thy  will  be  done,  Lord,  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven, 
and  the  sources  of  the  seas  were  opened. 

But  one  man  built  an  ark  and  it  was  with  his  progeny 
that  the  earth  was  again  replenished.  God  said,  perhaps 
fire  will  succeed  better  than  water,  and  he  showered  brim- 
stone and  fire  all  over  the  world,  and  burned  out  every 
man  but  one,  Lot,  and  his  daughters,  and  with  these  the 
world  was  again  replenished,  the  first  daughter  saying 
to  the  younger:  our  father  is  old,  there's  not  a  man  to 
come  in  unto  us  after  the  manner  of  all  the  world.  Come, 
let  us  make  our  father  drink  wine  and  we  will  lie  with 
him  that  we  may  preserve  the  seed  of  our  father.  And 
what  the  older  had  done  the  younger  did  the  next  night. 
And  seeing  how  all  his  designs  had  failed  him,  and 
that  the  race  of  man  was  indestructible,  Iahveh  bowed 
his  head,  saying:  my  years  are  numbered.  I  am  dying 
and  shall  die,  for  the  years  are  coming  when  men  will 
no  longer  believe  in  God. 


CHAPTER  43. 

NOW,  Alec,  that  is  the  end  of  the  story  that  I  composed 
last  week,  and  you  being  the  shanachie  of  old  Con- 
naught  I  should  like  to  hear  my  story  criticised  by  you,  to 


264       A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

hear  it  blamed  or  praised,  if  there  be  anything  in  it  that 
seems  worthy  to  you  of  praise  or  blame.  Well,  your  honour, 
there  are  fine  things  in  your  story,  but  I'm  sure  Father 
Kennedy  wouldn't  have  any  truck  with  any  story  about 
Adam  and  Eve  that  isn't  in  the  Bible.  The  Talmud,  I 
interjected.  But  forget  Father  Tom  and  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  my  story.  A  wonderful  story,  your  honour, 
for  if  I  rightly  understand  you,  it  isn't  more  than  a  week 
old;  the  best  I've  ever  heard  at  that  age,  and  when  it 
has  been  seven  or  eight  years  in  your  head  it  will  be  as 
good  as  ten-year-old  John  Jamieson.  That's  how  it  is 
with  mine.  At  first  they  are  poisonous  stuff  but  year  by 
year  they  mellow,  and  after  sleeping  and  dreaming  in 
my  head,  like  the  whisky  in  the  wood,  they  come  out 
good,  sociable  and  kind,  and  them  that  listen  become  as 
good  and  kind  and  gentle  as  the  whisky  itself. 

You  think  that  my  story  will  improve  on  keeping?  I 
do,  your  honour.  I  think  you're  right,  I  felt  that  I  was 
relating  only  a  rough  and  ready  version.  As  I  told  you, 
my  stories  are  eye  stories,  yours  are  ear  stories,  but  I 
would  not  have  your  honour  thinking  that  I  was  making 
little  of  your  story;  it's  a  grand  story  as  you  have  told  it: 
Adam  praying  on  his  two  knees  in  front  of  Eve:  I  have 
killed  her,  I  have  killed  her,  she  is  dead  and  all;  all  is 
done  and  damn  the  deed!  But  of  course  he  soon  saw 
that  he  had  not  done  her  a  bit  of  harm,  and  that  she  was 
ready  for  some  more  of  the  same  trouble. 

Faith,  I  give  in  to  your  honour;  the  shanachie  of  London 
has  pounded  the  shanachie  of  Westport.  There  are  grand 
things  in  it,  the  great  squeal  of  a  screech  that  Eve  let  off, 
and  himself  frightened  out  of  his  very  life,  and  every  cat 
of  the  cats,  and  ever  creature  of  the  creatures,  in  the 
same  fright — a  grand  hullabaloo — a  squeal,  a  whoop  and 
a  whistle,  and  then  all  silent  again. 

Faith  and  troth,  Alec,  it's  yourself  that  should  have 
been  the  storyteller,  for  you  have  put  a  polish  on  Eve's 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY       265 

love  cry  that  raises  a  black  envy  of  you  up  into  my  heart, 
and  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  Synge  himself  were  stirring 
in  his  grave  at  this  very  moment. 


CHAPTER  44. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  relation  of  the  Garden  of  Eden 
I  caught  sight  of  Alec  under  the  walls  of  the  old  mill, 
looking  out  for  a  safe  place  to  cross  the  river.  There's 
not  much  water  in  the  river,  I  said  to  myself;  he  can 
step  from  boulder  to  boulder,  and  my  heart  quickened  a 
little  at  the  thought  of  the  new  story  he  was  coming  to 
tell  me.  Is  it  a  long  one?  I  asked,  as  soon  as  he  had 
scrambled  up  the  high  bank.  His  puzzled  face  was 
sufficient  answer;  he  had  not  come  to  tell  me  a  story, 
but  to  bid  me  good-bye,  having  heard  in  the  town  that  I 
was  leaving  Westport  at  the  end  of  the  week. 

But  maybe  I'm  interfering  with  your  honour  in 
coming  to  you  now;  you  may  be  composing  another 
story,  and  on  asking  him  why  he  thought  that  he  said 
there  was  no  place  for  the  unravelling  of  stories  like  a  sea 
by  a  brawling  brook;  like  water  they  come  foaming  and 
swirling  by,  as  if  they  couldn't  get  on  fast  enough.  Yes, 
Alec,  it's  like  that  by  a  brook,  sometimes.  But  I'm  sorry 
you  haven't  come  to  tell  me  a  story.  Are  you  sure  you 
haven't  one  about  you?  Well,  no,  your  honour,  it's  just 
the  other  way  round;  I  thought  I'd  come  to  you  for  an- 
other one;  I'd  like  to  hear  a  story  from  you — one  of  them 
stories  the  publishers  do  be  ferreting  in  their  pockets 
for  the  notes  and  the  gold  to  pay  you  for.  I'd  like  to 
hear  one  of  them  as  it  comes  out  of  your  head.  I  think 
you  must  take  me  for  a  keg,  Alec,  always  on  tap  as  soon 
as  the  spigot  has  been  driven  in.  Isn't  every  shanachie 
like  that?  he  answered,  and  don't  the  country  people  be 


266       A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

asking  me  for  stories  till  the  last  sod  of  turf  has  melted 
away  into  ashes?  A  real  story,  Alec,  without  Iahveh  or 
fairies,  not  even  a  priest  in  it  nor  devils  nor  serpents,  an 
English  or  an  Irish  story,  which,  Alec?  I  wouldn't  be 
sticking  you  to  any  one  country,  Alec  answered,  but  I 
think  I'd  be  feeling  more  at  home  listening  to  an  Irish 
story  than  to  an  English  one.  And  sure  an  Irishman  the 
like  of  yourself  wouldn't  be  put  to  the  pin  of  his  collar 
to  tell  an  Irish  story,  for  there  must  be  niany's  the  one 
going  the  rounds  inside  your  head,  and  you  this  many 
a  year  away  from  us.  True  enough,  I  answered,  so  many 
years  that  it  ill  becomes  me  to  be  telling  an  Irish  story 
to  the  shanachie  of  Connaught.  Didn't  you  come  out  of 
Connaught  yourself?  he  asked,  and  from  the  heart  of  it, 
from  the  county  of  Mayo  like  I  did  myself?  Faith,  it  will 
be  the  Ballinrobe  cock  against  the  Westport  rooster.  I 
don't  know  that  I  can  think  of  an  Irish  story,  I  said,  un- 
less   Unless  what,  your  honour?    Unless  I  start  out 

of  an  old  memory.  The  best  stories  babble  themselves 
out  of  them  old  memories,  he  said.  But  now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  Alec,  the  story  I'd  be  telling  you  is  Irish  only 
because  it  all  happened  in  Morrison's  Hotel.  Isn't  that 
the  hotel  Parnell  used  to  be  staying  in?  Alec  interjected. 
It  is  so,  I  answered;  and  the  story  has  been  muttering  in 
me  ever  since;  but  I'm  no  way  sure  that  it  won't  tangle 
on  me  in  the  telling.  You'll  bear  in  mind,  Alec,  that  this 
is  the  first  telling.  You  said,  yourself  that  stories  ripen 
in  the  mouth.  They  do,  faith,  he  answered.  The  tongue's 
the  fellow  to  put  a  good  skin  on  a  story.  In  the  third 
or  fourth  telling  the  pink  do  be  showing  out  upon  it, 
and  ever  afterwards  it  do  be  as  juicy  in  the  mouth  as 
a  blackberry  in  Samhain. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY       267 


CHAPTER  45. 

WHEN  we  went  up  to  Dublin  in  the  sixties,  Alec,  we 
always  put  up  at  Morrison's  Hotel,  a  big  family 
hotel  at  the  corner  of  Dawson  Street,  one  that  was  well 
patronised  by  the  gentry  from  all  over  Ireland,  and  fine  big 
bills  they  would  be  running  up  in  it,  my  father  paying  his 
every  six  months  when  he  was  able,  which  wasn't  very 
often,  for  what  with  racing  stables  and  elections  following 
one  after  the  other,  Moore  Hall  wasn't  what  you'd  call 
overflowing  with  money.  Now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  I  can  see  Morrison's  as  clearly  almost  as  I  do 
Moore  Hall:  the  front  door  opening  into  a  short  passage, 
with  some  half-dozen  steps  leading  up  into  the  house. 
A  dark  entrance,  so  it  was,  the  glass  doors  of  the 
coffee-room  showing  through  the  dimness,  and  in  front 
of  the  visitor  a  big  staircase  running  up  to  the  second 
landing.  I  don't  think  the  grand  staircase  went  any 
higher;  I  think  I  can  see  it  looping  somehow  about 
the  head  of  the  staircase,  and  I'm  sure  I'm  right; 
it  was  always  being  drummed  into  me  that  I  mustn't 
climb  onto  the  banisters,  a  thing  I  was  wishing  to  do, 
but  was  always  afraid  to  get  astride  of  them,  so  deep 
was  it  down  to  the  ground  floor.  I  think  I  can  see 
the  long  passage  leading  from  the  stair-head  so  far 
into  the  house  that  I  didn't  dare  to  follow  it  for  fear  of 
losing  my  way.  I  think  there  was  a  little  staircase  at 
the  end  of  it,  and  I  used  to  wonder  whither  it  went.  A 
very  big  building  was  Morrison's  Hotel,  with  passages 
running  hither  and  thither  and  little  flights  of  steps  in 
all  kinds  of  odd  corners.     So  it  was  on  the  second  floor  and 

on  the  third But  we  needn't  be  thinking  what  was 

above  the  second  floor,  for  we  were  always  on  the  second 
in  a  big  sitting-room  that  overlooked  College  Green.  I 
can  remember  the  pair  of  windows,  their  lace  curtains, 


268       A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

and  their  repp  curtains,  better  than  the  passages,  and 
better  than  the  windows  I  can  remember  myself  looking 
through  the  pane  interested  in  the  coal  carts  going  by; 
the  bell  hitched  on  to  the  horse's  collar  jangling  all  the 
way  down  the  street;  the  coalman  himself  sitting,  his 
legs  hanging  over  the  shafts,  driving  from  the  wrong 
side  and  looking  up  at  the  windows  to  see  if  he  could 
spy  out  an  order.  Fine  horses  were  in  these  coal  carts, 
stepping  out  as  well  as  those  in  our  own  carriage.  I'm 
telling  you  these  things  for  the  pleasure  of  looking  back 
and  nothing  else.  I  can  see  the  sitting-room  and  myself 
as  plainly  as  I  can  see  the  mountains  beyond,  in  some 
ways  plainer;  and  the  waiter  that  used  to  attend  on  us, 
I  can  see  him,  though  not  as  plainly  as  I  see  you,  Alec; 
but  I'm  more  knowledgeable  of  him,  if  you'd  be  under- 
standing me  rightly;  and  to  this  day  I  can  recall  the 
awful  frights  he  gave  me  when  he  came  behind  me 
awaking  me  from  my  dream  of  a  coalman's  life;  what 
he  said  is  forgotten,  but  his  squeaky  voice  remains  in  my 
ears.  He  seemed  to  be  always  laughing  at  me,  showing 
long  yellow  teeth,  and  I  used  to  be  afraid  to  open  the 
sitting-room  door,  for  I'd  be  sure  to  find  him  waiting  on 
the  landing,  his  napkin  thrown  over  his  right  shoulder. 
I  think  I  was  afraid  he'd  pick  me  up  and  kiss  me.  As 
the  whole  of  my  story  is  about  him,  perhaps  I'd  better 
describe  him  more  fully,  and  to  do  that  I  will  tell  you 
that  he  was  a  tall,  scraggy  fellow,  with  big  hips  sticking 
out  and  a  long  thin  throat.  It  was  his  throat  that 
frightened  me  as  much  as  anything  about  him,  unless  it 
was  his  nose,  which  was  a  great  high  one,  or  his  melancholy 
eyes,  which  were  pale  blue  and  very  small,  deep  in  the 
head.  He  was  old,  but  how  old  I  cannot  say,  for  every- 
body except  children  seems  old  to  children.  He  seemed 
the  ugliest  thing  I'd  ever  seen  out  of  a  fairy-book,  and 
I'd  beg  not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  sitting-room;  and  I'm 
sure  I  often  asked  my  father  and  mother  to  take  another 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY       269 

set  of  rooms,  which  they  never  did,  for  they  liked  Albert 
Nobbs;  and  the  guests  liked  him,  and  the  proprietress 
liked  him,  as  well  she  might,  for  he  was  the  most  de- 
pendable servant  in  the  hotel:  no  running  round  to 
public-houses  and  coming  back  with  the  smell  of  whisky 
and  tobacco  upon  him;  no  rank  pipe  in  his  pocket,  and 
of  all  no  playing  the  fool  with  the  maid-servants.  Nobody 
had  ever  been  heard  to  say  he  had  seen  Albert  out  with 
one  of  them.  A  queer  hobgoblin  sort  of  fellow  that 
they  mightn't  have  cared  to  be  seen  with,  but  all  the 
same  it  seemed  to  them  funny  that  he  should  never 
propose  to  walk  out  with  one  of  them.  I've  heard  the 
hall  porter  say  it  was  hard  to  understand  a  man  living 
without  taking  pleasure  in  something  outside  of  his 
work.  Holidays  he  never  asked  for,  and  when  Mrs 
Baker  pressed  him  to  go  to  the  salt  water  for  a  week 
he'd  try  to  rake  up  an  excuse  for  not  going  away,  asking 
if  it  wasn't  true  that  the  Blakes,  the  Joyces  and  the 
Ruttledges  were  coming  up  to  town,  saying  that  he 
didn't  like  to  be  away,  so  used  were  they  to  him  and 
he  to  them.  A  strange  life  his  was,  and  mysterious, 
though  every  hour  of  it  was  before  them,  saving  the 
hours  he  was  asleep,  which  wasn't  many,  for  he  was  no 
great  sleeper.  From  the  time  he  got  up  in  the  morn- 
ing till  he  went  to  bed  at  night  he  was  before  their 
eyes,  running  up  and  down  the  staircase,  his  napkin  over 
his  arm,  taking  orders  with  cheerfulness,  as  if  an  order 
were  as  good  as  a  half-crown  tip  to  him;  always  good- 
humoured,  and  making  amends  for  his  lack  of  interest 
in  other  people  by  his  willingness  to  oblige.  No  one 
had  ever  heard  him  object  to  doing  anything  he  was 
asked  to  do  or  even  to  put  forward  an  excuse  for  not 
being  able  to  do  it.  In  fact  his  willingness  to  oblige  was 
so  notorious  in  the  hotel  that  Mrs  Baker  (the  proprietress 
of  Morrison's  Hotel  at  the  time)  could  hardly  believe  she 
was  listening  to  him  when  he  began  to  stumble  from  one 


270       A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

excuse  to  another  for  not  sharing  his  bed  with  Hubert 
Page,  and  this  after  she  had  told  him  that  his  bed  was 
Page's  only  chance  of  getting  a  stretch  that  night.  All 
the  other  waiters  were  married  men  and  went  home  to 
their  wives.  You  see,  Alec,  it  was  Punchestown  week, 
and  beds  are  as  scarce  in  Dublin  that  week  as  diamonds 
are  on  the  slopes  of  Croagh  Patrick.  But  you  haven't 
told  us  yet  who  Page  was,  Alec  interjected,  and  I  thought 
reprovingly.  I'm  just  coming  to  him,  I  answered: 
Hubert  Page  was  a  house-painter,  well  known  and  well 
liked  by  Mrs  Baker.  He  came  over  every  season,  and 
was  always  welcome  at  Morrison's  Hotel,  and  so  pleasant 
were  his  manners  that  one  forgot  the  smell  of  his  paint. 
It  is  hardly  saying  too  much  to  say  that  when  Hubert 
Page  had  finished  his  job  everybody  in  the  hotel,  men 
and  women  alike,  missed  the  pleasant  sight  of  this  young 
man  going  to  and  fro  in  his  suit  of  hollands,  the  long 
coat  buttoned  loosely  to  his  figure  with  large  bone 
buttons,  going  to  and  fro  about  his  work,  up  and  down 
the  passages,  with  a  sort  of  lolling  idle  gait  that  attracted 
and  pleased  the  eye — a  young  man  that  would  seem 
preferable  to  most  men  if  a  man  had  to  choose  a  bed- 
fellow, yet  seemingly  the  very  one  that  Albert  Nobbs 
couldn't  abide  lying  down  with,  a  dislike  that  Mrs  Baker 
could  understand  so  little  that  she  stood  staring  at  her 
confused  and  embarrassed  waiter,  who  was  still  seeking 
excuses  for  his  dislike  to  share  his  bed  with  Hubert  Page. 
I  suppose  you  fully  understand,  she  said,  that  Page  is 
leaving  for  Belfast  by  the  morning  train,  and  has  come 
over  here  to  ask  us  for  a  bed,  there  not  being  one  at  the 
hotel  in  which  he  is  working?  Albert  answered  that  he 
understood  well  enough,  but  was  thinking He  be- 
gan again  to  fumble  with  words.  Now  what  are  you  trying 
to  say?  Mrs  Baker  asked,  and  rather  sharply;  my  bed  is 
full  of  lumps,  Albert  answered.  Your  mattress  full  of 
lumps!  the  proprietress  rapped  out;  why,  your  mattress 


A  STORY-TELLER'jS  HOLIDAY       271 

was  repicked  and  buttoned  six  months  ago,  and  came 
back  as  good  as  any  mattress  in  the  hotel;  what  kind  of 
story  are  you  telling  me?  So  it  was,  ma'am,  so  it  was, 
Albert  mumbled,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he  got  out 
his  next  excuse;  he  was  a  very  light  sleeper  and  had 
never  slept  with  anybody  before  and  was  sure  he  wouldn't 
close  his  eyes;  not  that  that  would  matter  much,  but  his 
sleeplessness  might  keep  Mr  Page  awake.  Mr  Page 
would  get  a  better  stretch  on  one  of  the  sofas  in  the 
coffee-room  than  in  his  bed,  I'm  thinking,  Mrs  Baker.  A 
better  stretch  on  the  sofa  in  the  coffee-room?  Mrs  Baker, 
repeated  angrily.  I  don't  understand  you,  not  a  little 
bit,  and  she  stood  staring  at  the  two  men,  so  dissimilar. 
But,  ma'am,  I  wouldn't  be  putting  Mr  Nobbs  to  the 
inconvenience  of  my  company,  the  house-painter  began. 
The  night  is  a  fine  one,  I'll  keep  myself  warm  with  a 
sharp  walk,  and  the  train  starts  early.  You'll  do  nothing 
of  the  kind,  Page,  she  answered;  and  seeing  that  Mrs 
Baker  was  now  very  angry  Albert  thought  it  time  to 
give  in,  and  without  more  ado  he  began  to  assure  them 
both  that  he'd  be  glad  of  Mr  Page's  company  in  his  bed. 
I  should  think  so,  indeed,  interjected  Mrs  Baker.  But, 
Albert  continued,  I'm  a  lighter  sleeper.  We've  had  enough 
of  that,  Albert.  If  Mr  Page  is  pleased  to  share  my  bed, 
Albert  continued,  I  shall  be  very  glad.     If  Mr  Nobbs 

doesn't  like  my  company  I  should Don't  say  another 

word,  Albert  whispered,  you'll  only  set  her  against  me. 
Come  upstairs  at  once.     It'll  be  all  right.     Come  along. 

Good-night,  ma'am,  and  I  hope No  inconvenience 

whatever,  Page,  Mrs  Baker  answered.  This  way,  Mr 
Page,  Albert  cried;  and  as  soon  as  they  were  in  the  room 
Albert  said:  I  hope  you  aren't  going  to  cut  up  rough  at 
anything  I've  said;  it  isn't  at  all  as  Mrs  Baker  put  it. 
I'm  glad  enough  of  your  company,  but  you  see,  as  I've 
never  slept  with  anybody  in  my  life  it  may  be  that  I  shall 
be  tossing  about  all  night  keeping  you  awake.     Well,  if 


272      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

it's  to  be  like  that,  Page  answered,  I  might  as  well  have 
a  doze  on  the  chair  until  it's  time  to  go,  and  not  trouble 
you  at  all.  Troubling  me  you  won't  be,  but  I  might  be 
troubling  you.  Enough  has  been  said,  we  must  lie  down 
together  whether  we  like  it  or  whether  we  don't,  for  [if 
Mrs  Baker  heard  that  we  hadn't  been  in  the  same  bed 
together  all  the  fault  would  lie  with  me.  I'd  be  sent  out 
of  the  hotel  in  double  quick  time.  But  how  can  she 
know?  Page  cried.  It's  been  settled  one  way,  so  let  us 
make  no  more  fuss  about  it. 

Albert  began  to  undo  his  white  necktie,  saying  he 
would  try  to  lie  quiet;  and  Page  started  pulling  off  his 
clothes,  thinking  he'd  be  well  pleased  to  be  out  of  the 
job  of  lying  down  with  Albert.  But  he  was  so  dog-tired 
that  he  couldn't  think  any  more  about  whom  he  was  to 
sleep  with,  only  of  the  long  days  of  twelve  and  thirteen 
hours  he  had  been  doing,  with  a  walk  to  and  from  his 
work.  Only  sleep  mattered  to  him,  and  Albert  saw  him 
tumble  into  bed  in  the  long  shirt  that  he  wore  under  his 
clothes,  and  lay  himself  down  next  to  the  wall.  It  would 
be  better  for  him  to  lie  on  the  outside,  Albert  said  to 
himself,  but  he  didn't  like  to  say  anything  lest  Page 
might  get  out  of  the  bed  in  a  fit  of  ill-humour;  but  Page, 
as  I've  said,  was  too  tired  to  trouble  himself  which  side 
of  the  bed  he  was  to  doss  on.  A  moment  after  he  was 
asleep:  and  Albert  stood  listening,  his  loosened  tie 
dangling,  till  the  heavy  breathing  from  the  bed  told  him 
that  Page  was  sound  asleep.  To  make  full  sure  he 
approached  the  bed  stealthily,  and  overlooking  Page, 
said:  poor  fellow,  I'm  glad  he's  in  my  bed  for  he'll  get 
a  good  sleep  there,  and  he  wants  it,  and  considering  that 
things  had  fallen  out  better  than  he  hoped  for,  he  began 
to  undress. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      273 


CHAPTER  46. 

HE  must  have  fallen  asleep  at  once,  and  soundly,  for 
he  awoke  out  of  nothingness.  Flea,  he  muttered,  and 
a  strong  one  too.  It  must  have  come  from  the  house- 
painter  alongside  of  me.  A  flea  will  leave  anyone  to  come  to 
me,  and  turning  round  in  bed  he  remembered  the  look 
of  dismay  that  had  appeared  on  the  housemaids'  faces 
yesterday  on  his  telling  them  that  no  man  would  ever  love 
their  hides  as  much  as  a  flea  loved  his,  which  was  so  true 
that  he  couldn't  understand  how  it  was  that  the  same  flea 
had  taken  so  long  to  find  him  out.  Fleas  must  be  as  partial 
to  him,  he  said,  as  they  are  to  me.  There  it  is  again,  trying 
to  make  up  for  lost  time,  and  out  went  Albert's  leg.  I'm 
afraid  I've  awakened  him,  Albert  said,  but  Hubert  only 
turned  over  in  the  bed  to  sleep  more  soundly.  It's  a  mercy 
indeed  that  he  is  so  tired,  Albert  said,  for  if  he  wasn't  very 
tired  that  last  jump  I  gave  would  have  awakened  him. 

A  moment  after  Albert  was  nipped  again  by  another 
flea  or  by  the  same  one,  he  couldn't  tell;  he  thought 
it  must  be  a  second  one,  so  vigorous  was  the  bite:  and 
he  was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  his  nails  off  the  spots. 
It  will  only  make  it  worse  if  I  scratch,  he  said,  and 
he  strove  to  lie  quiet.  But  the  torment  was  too  great. 
I've  got  to  get  up,  he  said,  and  raising  himself  up 
quietly,  he  listened.  The  striking  of  a  match  won't 
awaken  him  out  of  that  sleep,  and  remembering  where 
he  had  put  the  match-box,  his  hand  was  on  it  at  once. 
The  match  flared  up;  he  lighted  the  candle  and  stood 
a  while  overlooking  his  bed-fellow:  I'm  safe,  he  said, 
and  set  himself  to  the  task  of  catching  the  flea.  There 
it  is  on  the  tail  of  my  shirt,  hardly  able  to  move  with 
all  the  blood  he's  taken  from  me.  Now  for  the  soap, 
and  as  he  was  about  to  dab  it  upon  the  blood-filled 
insect  the  painter  awoke  with  a  great  yawn,  and  turning 


274      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

round,  he  said:  Lord  a-massey!  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this?  why,  you're  a  woman!  If  Albert  had  had  the 
presence  of  mind  to  drop  his  shirt  over  his  shoulders 
and  to  answer:  you're  dreaming,  my  man,  Page  might 
have  turned  over  and  fallen  asleep  and  in  the  morning 
forgotten  all  about  it,  or  thought  he  had  been  dreaming. 
But  Albert  hadn't  a  word  in  her  chops.  At  last  she 
began  to  blub.  You  won't  tell  on  me,  and  ruin  a  poor 
man,  will  you,  Mr  Page?  that  is  all  I  ask  of  you,  and  on 
my  knees  I  beg  it.  Get  up  from  your  knees,  my  good 
woman,  said  Hubert.  My  good  woman!  Albert  repeated, 
for  she  had  been  about  so  long  as  a  man  that  she  only 
remembered  occasionally  that  she  was  a  woman.  My 
good  woman,  he  repeated,  get  up  from  your  knees  and 
tell  me  how  long  you  have  been  playing  this  part.  Ever 
since  I  was  a  girl,  Albert  answered.  You  won't  tell  upon 
me,  will  you,  Mr  Page,  and  prevent  a  poor  woman  from 
getting  her  living?  Not  likely,  I've  no  thought  of  telling 
on  you,  but  I'd  like  to  hear  how  it  all  came  about.  How 
I  went  out  as  a  youth  to  get  my  living?  Yes;  tell  me 
the  story,  Hubert  answered,  for  though  I  was  very  sleepy 
just  now,  the  sleep  has  left  my  eyes  and  I'd  like  to 
hear  it.  But  before  you  begin  tell  me  what  you  were 
doing  with  your  shirt  off.  A  flea,  Albert  answered.  I 
suffer  terribly  from  fleas,  and  you  must  have  brought 
some  in  with  you,  Mr  Page.  I  shall  be  covered  in  blotches 
in  the  morning.  I'm  sorry  for  that,  Hubert  said,  but 
tell  me  how  long  ago  it  was  that  you  became  a  man. 
Before  you  came  to  Dublin,  of  course.  Oh  yes,  long 
before.  It  is  very  cold,  she  said,  and  shuddering  dropped 
her  shirt  over  her  shoulders  and  pulled  on  her  trousers. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      275 


CHAPTER  47. 

IT  was  in  London,  soon  after  the  death  of  my  old  nurse, 
she  began.  You  know  I'm  not  Irish,  Mr  Page.  My 
parents  may  have  been  for  all  I  know.  The  only  one 
who  knew  who  they  were  was  my  old  nurse  and  she 
never  told  me.  Never  told  you !  interjected  Hubert.  No, 
she  never  told  me,  though  I  often  asked  her,  saying  no 
good  could  come  of  holding  it  back  from  me.  She  might 
have  told  me  before  she  died  but  she  died  suddenly. 
Died  suddenly,  Hubert  repeated,  without  telling  you 
who  you  were !   You'd  better  begin  at  the  beginning. 

I  don't  know  how  I'm  to  do  that,  for  the  story  seems 
to  me  to  be  without  a  beginning;  anyway  I  don't  know 
the  beginning.  I  was  a  bastard  and  no  one  but  my  old 
nurse,  who  brought  me  up,  knew  who  I  was;  she  said 
she'd  tell  me  some  day  and  she  hinted  more  than  once 
that  my  people  were  grand  folk  and  I  know  she  had  a 
big  allowance  from  them  for  my  education.  Whoever 
they  were  a  hundred  a  year  was  paid  to  her  for  my  keep 
and  education,  and  all  went  well  with  us  so  long  as  my 
parents  lived,  but  when  they  died,  the  allowance  was  no 
longer  paid,  and  my  nurse  and  myself  had  to  go  out  to 
work.  It  was  all  very  sudden:  one  day  the  reverend 
mother  (I  got  my  education  at  a  convent  school)  told 
me  that  Mrs  Nobbs,  my  old  nurse,  had  sent  for  me,  and 
the  first  news  I  had  on  coming  home  was  that  my  parents 
were  dead  and  that  we'd  have  to  get  our  own  living 
henceforth.  Nor  was  there  time  for  picking  and  choosing. 
We  hadn't  what  would  keep  us  till  the  end  of  the  month 
in  the  house,  so  out  we  had  to  go  in  search  of  work; 
and  the  first  job  that  came  our  way  was  looking  after 
chambers  in  the  Temple.  We  had  three  gentlemen  to 
look  after,  so  there  was  eighteen  shillings  a  week  between 
my  old  nurse  and  myself;  the  omnibus  fares  had  to  come 


276      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

out  of  these  wages,  and  to  save  sixpence  a  day  we  went 
to  live  in  Temple  Lane.  My  old  nurse  didn't  mind  the 
lane;  she  had  been  a  working  woman  all  her  life,  but 
with  me  it  was  different,  and  the  change  was  so  great 
from  the  convent  that  I  often  thought  I  would  sooner 
die  than  continue  to  live  amid  rough  people.  There  was 
nothing  wrong  with  them,  they  were  honest  enough, 
but  they  were  poor,  and  when  one  is  very  poor  one  lives 
like  the  animals,  indecently,  and  life  without  decency  is 
hardly  bearable,  so  I  thought.  I've  been  through  a 
great  deal  since  in  different  hotels,  and  have  become 
used  to  hard  work,  but  even  now  I  can't  think  of  Temple 
Lane  without  goose  flesh,  and  when  Mrs  Nobbs'  brother 
lost  his  berth  (he'd  been  a  band-master,  a  bugler,  or 
something  to  do  with  music  in  the  country),  my  old 
nurse  was  obliged  to  give  him  sixpence  a  day,  and  the 
drop  from  eighteen  shillings  to  fourteen  and  sixpence 
is  a  big  one.  My  old  nurse  worried  about  the  food, 
but  it  was  the  rough  men  that  I  worried  about;  the 
bandsman  wouldn't  leave  me  alone,  and  many's  the  time 
I've  waited  until  the  staircase  was  clear,  afraid  that  if 
I  met  him  or  another  I'd  be  caught  hold  of  and  held 
and  pulled  about.  I  was  different  then  from  what  I 
am  now  and  might  have  been  tempted  if  one  of  them  had 
been  less  rough  than  the  rest,  and  if  I  hadn't  known  I 
was  a  bastard;  it  was  that,  I  think,  that  kept  me  straight 
more  than  anything  else,  for  I  had  just  begun  to  feel 
what  a  great  misfortune  it  is  for  a  poor  girl  to  find  her- 
self in  the  family  way;  no  greater  misfortune  can  befall 
anyone  in  this  world,  but  it  would  have  been  worse  in 
my  case,  for  I  should  have  known  that  I  was  only  bringing 
another  bastard  into  the  world. 

I  escaped  being  seduced  in  the  lane,  and  in  the  chambers 
the  barristers  had  their  own  mistresses,  pleasant  and  con- 
siderate men  they  all  were — pleasant  to  work  for;  and  it 
wasn't  until  four  o'clock  came  and  our  work  was  over  for 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      277 

the  day  that  my  heart  sank,  for  after  four  o'clock  till  we 
went  to  bed  at  night  there  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to 
listen  to  drunken  women;  I  don't  know  which  was 
the  most  revolting,  the  laughter  or  the  curses. 

One  of  the  barristers  we  worked  for  was  Mr  Congreve; 
he  had  chambers  in  Temple  Gardens  overlooking  the 
river,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  us  to  keep  his  pretty  things 
clean,  never  breaking  one  of  them;  it  was  a  pleasure  for 
my  old  nurse  as  well  as  myself,  for  myself  more  than  her, 
for  though  I  wasn't  very  sure  of  myself  at  the  time,  looking 
back  now  I  can  see  that  I  must  have  loved  Mr  Congreve 
very  dearly;  and  it  couldn't  be  else,  for  I  had  come  out  of 
a  convent  of  nuns  where  I  had  been  given  a  good  educa- 
tion, where  all  was  good,  quiet,  refined  and  gentle,  and 
Mr  Congreve  seemed  in  many  ways  to  remind  me  of 
the  convent:  for  he  never  missed  Church,  as  rare  for 
him  to  miss  a  service  as  for  parson.  There  was  plenty 
of  books  in  his  chambers  and  he'd  lend  them  to  me, 
and  talk  to  me  when  I  took  in  his  breakfast  over  his 
newspaper,  and  ask  me  about  the  convent  and  what  the 
nuns  were  like,  and  I'd  stand  in  front  of  him,  my  eyes 
fixed  on  him,  not  feeling  the  time  going  by.  I  can  see 
him  now  as  plainly  as  if  he  were  before  me — very  thin 
and  elegant,  with  long  white  hands  and  beautifully 
dressed.  Even  in  the  old  clothes  that  he  wore  of  a 
morning  there  wasn't  much  fault  to  find;  he  wore  old 
clothes  more  elegantly  than  any  man  in  the  Temple 
wore  his  new  clothes.  I  used  to  know  all  his  suits,  as 
well  I  might,  for  it  was  my  job  to  look  after  them,  to 
brush  them;  and  I  used  to  spend  a  great  deal  more  time 
than  was  needed  taking  out  spots  with  benzine,  arranging 
his  neckties — he  had  fifty  or  sixty,  all  kinds — and  seven 
or  eight  great  coats.  A  real  toff,  my  word  he  was  that, 
but  not  one  of  those  haughty  ones  too  proud  to  give 
one  a  nod.  He  always  smiled  and  nodded  if  we  met 
under  the  clock,  he  on  his  way  to  the  library  and  I 


278      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

returning  to  Temple  Lane.  I  used  to  look  after  him, 
saying:  he's  got  on  the  striped  trousers  and  the  em- 
broidered waistcoat.  Mr  Congreve  was  a  compensa- 
tion for  Temple  Lane;  he  had  promised  to  take  me  into 
his  private  service  and  I  was  counting  the  days  when  I 
should  leave  Temple  Lane,  when  one  day  I  said  to  myself : 
why,  here's  a  letter  from  a  woman.  You  see,  Mr  Congreve 
wasn't  like  the  other  young  men  in  the  Temple;  I  never 
found  a  hairpin  in  his  bed,  and  if  I  had  I  shouldn't  have 
thought  as  much  of  him  as  I  did.  Nice  is  in  France,  I 
said,  and  thought  no  more  about  the  matter  until  another 
letter  arrived  from  Nice.  Now  what  can  she  be  writing 
to  him  about?  I  asked,  and  thought  no  more  about  it  till 
the  third  letter  arrived.  Yesterday  is  already  more  than 
half  forgotten,  but  the  morning  I  took  in  that  last  letter 
is  always  before  me.  And  it  was  a  few  mornings  after- 
wards that  a  box  of  flowers  came  for  him.  A  parcel  for 
you,  sir,  I  said.  He  roused  himself  up  in  bed.  For  me? 
he  cried,  putting  out  his  hand,  and  the  moment  he  saw 
the  writing,  he  said :  put  the  flowers  in  water.  He  knows 
all  about  it,  I  said  to  myself,  and  so  overcome  was  I  as  I 
picked  them  up  out  of  the  box  that  I  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  faintness,  and  my  old  nurse  said:  what  is  the 
matter  with  thee?  She  never  guessed,  and  I  couldn't 
have  told  her  if  I  had  wished  to,  for  at  the  time  it  was  no 
more  than  a  feeling  that  so  far  as  I  was  concerned  all  was 
over.  Of  course  I  never  thought  that  Mr  Congreve  would 
look  at  me,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  wanted  him  to,  but  I 
didn't  want  another  woman  about  the  place,  and  I  seemed 
to  know  from  that  moment  what  was  going  to  happen. 
She  isn't  far  away  now,  in  the  train  maybe,  I  said,  as  I 
went  about  my  work,  and  these  rooms  will  be  mine  no 
longer.  Of  course  they  never  were  mine,  but  you  know 
what  I  mean. 

A  week  later  he  said  to  me:  there's  a  lady  coming  to 
luncheon  here,   and  I  remember  the  piercing  that  the 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      279 

words  caused  me;  I  can  feel  them  here  still,  and  Albert 
put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  Well,  I  had  to  serve  the 
luncheon  working  round  the  table  and  they  not  minding 
me  at  all,  but  sitting  looking  at  each  other  lost  in  a  sense 
of  delight:  the  luncheon  was  forgotten;  they  don't  want 
me  waiting  about,  I  said:  I  knew  all  this,  and  said  to 
myself  in  the  kitchen:  it's  disgraceful,  it's  sinful,  to  lead 
a  man  into  sin,  for  all  my  anger  went  out  against  the 
woman,  and  not  against  Mr  Congreve,  for  in  my  eyes  he 
seemed  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  victim  of  a  designing 
woman;  that  is  how  I  looked  at  it  at  the  time,  being 
but  a  youngster  only  just  come  from  a  convent  school. 

I  don't  think  that  anyone  suffered  more  than  I  did  in 
those  days.  It  seems  all  very  silly  now  when  I  look  back 
upon  it,  but  it  was  very  real  then.  It  does  seem  silly  to 
tell  that  I  used  to  lie  awake  all  night  thinking  to  myself 
that  Mr  Congreve  was  an  elegant  gentleman  and  I  but  a 
poor  serving  girl  whom  he  could  never  look  upon  as  any- 
body, except  one  to  go  to  the  cellar  for  coal  or  to  the 
kitchen  to  fetch  his  breakfast.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
hoped  he'd  fall  in  love  with  me.  It  wasn't  as  bad  as 
that.  It  was  the  hopelessness  of  it  that  set  the  tears 
streaming  down  my  cheeks  over  my  pillow,  and  I  used  to 
stuff  the  sheet  into  my  mouth  to  keep  back  the  sobs  lest 
my  old  nurse  should  hear  me;  it  wouldn't  do  to  keep  her 
awake  for  she  was  very  ill  at  that  time;  and  soon  after- 
wards she  died,  and  then  I  was  left  alone,  without  a  friend 
in  the  world.  The  only  people  I  knew  were  the  char- 
women that  lived  in  Temple  Lane,  and  the  bugler,  who 
began  to  bully  me,  saying  that  I  must  continue  to  give 
him  the  same  money  he  had  had  from  my  old  nurse.  He 
caught  me  on  the  stair  once  and  twisted  my  arm  till  I 
thought  he'd  broken  it.  The  month  after  my  old  nurse's 
death  till  I  went  to  earn  my  living  as  a  waiter  was  the 
hardest  time  of  all,  and  Mr  Congreve's  kindness  seemed 
to  hurt  me  more  than  anything.     If  he'd  only  spared  me 


280      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

his  kind  words,  and  not  spoken  about  the  extra  money 
he  was  going  to  give  me  for  my  attendance  on  his  lady, 
I  shouldn't  have  felt  so  much  that  they  had  lain  side  by 
side  in  the  bed  that  I  was  making.  She  brought  a  dress- 
ing gown  to  the  chambers  and  some  slippers,  and  then 
more  luggage  came  along;  and  I  think  she  must  have 
guessed  I  was  in  love  with  Mr  Congreve,  for  I  heard  them 
quarrelling — my  name  was  mentioned;  and  I  said:  I  can't 
put  up  with  it  any  longer,  whatever  the  next  life  may  be 
like  it  can't  be  worse  than  this  one  for  me  at  least,  and 
as  I  went  to  and  fro  between  Temple  Lane  and  the 
Cha.mbers  in  Temple  Gardens  I  began  to  think  how  I 
might  make  away  with  myself.  I  don't  know  if  you  know 
London,  Hubert?  Yes,  he  said;  I'm  a  Londoner,  but  I 
come  here  to  work  every  year.  Then  if  you  know  the 
Temple,  you  know  that  the  windows  of  Temple  Gardens 
overlooked  the  river.  I  used  to  stand  at  those  windows 
watching  the  big  brown  river  flowing  through  its  bridges, 
thinking  all  the  while  of  the  sea  into  which  it  went,  and 
that  I  must  plunge  into  the  river  and  be  borne  away 
down  to  the  sea,  or  be  picked  up  before  I  got  there.  It 
didn't  matter  which,  for  my  trouble  would  be  over,  and 
that  was  all  I  could  think  about,  making  an  end  to  my 
trouble. 

I  couldn't  get  the  Frenchwoman  out  of  my  thoughts, 
she  and  Mr  Congreve  sitting  together;  and  her  suspicions 
that  I  cared  for  him  made  her  harder  on  me  than  she 
need  have  been — always  coming  the  missis  over  me.  It 
was  her  airs  and  graces  that  stiffened  my  back  more  than 
anything  else.  I'm  sure  if  it  hadn't  been  that  I  met 
Bessie  Lawrence  I  should  have  done  away  with  myself. 
She  was  the  woman  that  used  to  look  after  the  chambers 
under  Mr  Congreve's.  We  stopped  talking  outside  the 
gateway  by  King's  Bench  Walk,  if  you  know  the  Temple 
you  know  where  I  mean.  Bessie  kept  talking,  but  I 
wasn't  listening,  only  catching  a  word  here  and  there,  not 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      281 

waking  up  from  the  dream  how  to  make  away  with  my- 
self till  I  heard  the  words:  if  I  had  a  figure  like  yours. 
As  nobody  had  ever  spoken  about  my  figure  before,  I 
said:  now  what  has  my  figure  got  to  do  with  it?  You 
haven't  been  listening  to  me,  she  said,  and  I  answered 
that  I  had  only  missed  the  last  few  words.  Just  missed 
the  last  few  words,  she  said  testily:  you  didn't  hear 
me  telling  you  there  is  a  big  dinner  at  the  Freemason's 
Tavern  to-night,  and  they're  short  of  waiters.  But  what 
has  that  got  to  do  with  my  figure?  I  asked.  That  shows, 
she  rapped  out,  that  you  haven't  been  listening  to  me. 
Didn't  I  say  that  if  it  wasn't  for  my  hips  and  bosom  I'd 
very  soon  be  into  a  suit  of  evening  clothes  and  getting 
ten  shillings  for  the  job.  But  what  has  that  got  to  do 
with  my  figure?  I  repeated.  Your  figure  is  just  the  one 
for  a  waiter's.  Oh,  I'd  never  thought  of  that,  says  I, 
and  we  said  no  more.  But  after  leaving  her  the  words 
kept  on  in  my  head:  so  my  figure  is  just  the  one  for  a 
waiter's,  till  my  eyes  caught  sight  of  a  bundle  of  old 
clothes  that  Mr  Congreve  had  given  me  to  sell.  A  suit 
of  evening  clothes  was  in  it.  You  see  Mr  Congreve 
and  myself  were  about  the  same  height  and  build. 
The  trousers  will  want  a  bit  of  shortening,  I  said  to 
myself;  and  I  set  to  work,  and  at  six  o'clock  I  was  in 
them  and  down  at  the  Freemason's  Tavern  answering 
questions,  saying  that  I  had  been  accustomed  to  waiting 
at  table. 

All  the  waiting  I  had  done  was  bringing  in  Mr 
Congreve's  dinner  from  the  kitchen  to  the  sitting-room; 
a  roast  chicken  or  a  chop,  and  in  my  fancy  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  waiting  at  the  Freemason's  Tavern  would  be 
much  the  same.  The  head  waiter  looked  me  over  a  bit 
doubtfully  and  asked  if  I  had  had  experience  with  public 
dinners:  I  thought  he  was  going  to  turn  me  down,  but 
they  were  short-handed  so  I  was  taken  on,  and  it  was  a 
mess  that  I  made  of  it,  getting  in  everybody's  way;  but 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

my  awkwardness  was  taken  in  good  part  and  I  received 
ten  shillings,  which  was  good  money  for  the  sort  of  work 
I  did  that  night.  But  what  stood  to  me  was  not  so  much 
the  ten  shillings  that  I  earned  as  the  bit  I  had  learned. 
It  was  only  a  bit,  not  much  bigger  than  a  threepenny 
bit;  but  I  had  worked  round  a  table  a  big  dinner,  and 
feeling  certain  that  I  could  learn  what  I  didn't  know, 
I  asked  for  another  job.  I  suppose  the  head  waiter 
could  see  that  there  was  the  making  of  a  waiter  in  me, 
for  on  coming  out  of  the  Freemason's  Tavern  he  stopped 
me  to  ask  if  I  was  going  back  to  private  service  as  soon 
as  I  could  get  a  place.  The  food  I'd  had  and  the 
excitement  of  the  dinner,  the  guests,  the  lights,  the  talk 
stood  to  me,  and  things  seemed  clearer  than  they  had 
ever  seemed  before.  My  feet  were  of  the  same  mind, 
for  they  wouldn't  walk  towards  the  Temple,  and  I 
answered  the  head  waiter  that  I'd  be  glad  of  another 
job.  Well,  said  he,  you  don't  know  much  about  the 
work,  but  you're  an  honest  lad,  I  think,  so  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do  for  you,  and  at  the  moment  a  thought 
struck  him.  Just  take  this  letter,  said  he,  to  the 
Holborn  Restaurant.  There's  a  dinner  there  and  I've 
had  word  that  they're  short  of  a  waiter  or  two.  Be  off 
as  fast  as  you  can. 

And  away  I  went  as  fast  as  my  legs  could  carry  me, 
and  they  took  me  there  in  good  time,  in  front,  by  a 
few  seconds,  of  two  other  fellows  who  were  after  the 
job.  I  got  it.  Another  job  came  along,  and  another  and 
another.  Each  of  them  jobs  was  worth  ten  shillings 
to  me,  to  say  nothing  of  the  learning  of  the  trade,  and 
having,  as  I've  said,  the  making  of  a  waiter  in  me,  it 
didn't  take  more  than  about  three  months  for  me  to 
be  as  quick  and  as  smart  and  as  watchful  as  the  best 
of  them,  and  without  them  qualities  no  one  will  succeed 
in  waiting.  I  have  worked  round  the  tables  in  the 
biggest  places  in  London  and  all  over  England  in  all 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      283 

the  big  towns,  in  Manchester,  in  Liverpool  and  Birming- 
ham; I  am  well  known  at  the  old  Hen  and  Chickens,  at 
the  Queen's  and  the  Plough  and  Harrow  in  Birmingham. 
It  was  seven  years  ago  that  I  came  here,  and  here  it 
would  seem  that  I've  come  to  be  looked  on  as  a  fixture, 
for  the  Bakers  are  good  people  to  work  for  and  I  didn't 
like  to  leave  them  when,  three  years  ago,  a  good  place  was 
offered  to  me,  so  kind  were  they  to  me  in  my  illness.  I 
suppose  one  never  remains  always  in  the  same  place,  but 
I  may  as  well  be  here  as  elsewhere. 

Seven  years  working  in  Morrison's  Hotel,  Page  said,  and 
on  the  second  floor?  Yes,  the  second  floor  is  the  best  in 
the  hotel,  the  money  is  better  than  in  the  Coffee  Room, 
and  that  is  why  the  Bakers  have  put  me  here,  Albert 
replied.  I  wouldn't  care  to  leave  them;  they've  often 
said  they  don't  know  what  they'd  do  without  me.  Seven 
years,  Hubert  repeated,  the  same  work  up  the  stairs  and 
down  the  stairs,  banging  into  the  kitchen  and  out  again. 
There's  more  variety  in  the  work  than  you  think  for, 
Hubert,  Albert  answered.  Every  family  is  different,  and 
so  you're  always  learning.  Seven  years,  Page  repeated, 
neither  man  nor  woman,  just  a  perhapser.  He  spoke  these 
words  more  to  himself  than  to  Nobbs,  but  feeling  he  had 
expressed  himself  incautiously  he  raised  his  eyes  and  read 
on  Albert's  face  that  the  words  had  gone  home,  and  that 
this  outcast  from  both  sexes  felt  her  loneliness  perhaps 
more  keenly  than  before.  As  Hubert  was  thinking  what 
words  he  might  use  to  conciliate  Albert  with  her  lot, 
Albert  repeated  the  words:  neither  man  nor  woman, 
yet  nobody  ever  suspected,  she  muttered,  and  never 
would  have  suspected  me  till  the  day  of  my  death  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  that  flea  that  you  brought  in  with  you. 
But  what  harm  did  the  flea  do?  I'm  bitten  all  over,  said 
Albert,  scratching  her  thighs.  Never  mind  the  bites, 
said  Hubert,  we  wouldn't  have  had  this  talk  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  fleas  and  I  shouldn't  have  heard  your  story. 


284      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

Tears  trembled  on  Albert's  eyelids;  she  tried  to  keep 
them  back,  but  they  overflowed  the  lids  and  were  soon 
running  quickly  down  her  cheeks.  You've  heard  my  story, 
she  said.  I  thought  nobody  would  ever  hear  it,  and  I 
thought  I  should  never  cry  again,  and  Hubert  watched 
the  gaunt  woman  shaking  with  sobs  under  a  coarse  night- 
shirt. It's  all  much  sadder  than  I  thought  it  was,  and 
if  I'd  known  how  sad  it  was  I  shouldn't  have  been  able 
to  live  through  it.  But  I've  jostled  along  somehow,  she 
said,  always  merry  and  bright,  with  never  anyone  to 
speak  to,  not  really  to  speak  to,  only  to  ask  for  plates  and 
dishes,  for  knives  and  forks  and  such  like,  tablecloths  and 
napkins,  cursing  betimes  the  life  one  has  been  through, 
for  the  feeling  cannot  help  coming  over  us,  perhaps  over 
the  biggest  as  over  the  smallest,  that  all  our  trouble  is 
for  nothing  and  can  end  in  nothing.  It  might  have  been 
better  if  I  had  taken  the  plunge.  But  why  am  I  thinking 
these  things?    It's  you  that  has  set  me  thinking,  Hubert. 

I'm  sorry  if Oh,  it's  no  use  being  sorry,  and  I'm  a 

great  silly  to  cry  like  this.  I  thought  that  regrets  had 
passed  away  with  the  petticoats.  But  you've  awakened 
the  woman  in  me.  You've  brought  it  all  up  again.  But 
I  mustn't  let  on  like  this;  it's  very  foolish  of  an  old 
perhapser  like  me,  neither  man  nor  woman!  But  I  can't 
help  it. 

She  began  to  sob  again,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  grief 
the  word  loneliness  was  uttered,  and  when  the  paroxysm 
was  over,  Hubert  said:  lonely,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is  lonely, 
and  he  put  his  hand  out  towards  Albert.  You're  very 
good,  Mr  Page,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  keep  my  secret, 
though  indeed  I  don't  care  very  much  whether  you 
do  or  not.  Now,  don't  let  on  like  that  again,  Hubert 
said.  Let  us  have  a  little  chat  and  try  to  understand 
each  other.  I'm  sure  it's  lonely  for  you  to  live  without 
man  or  without  woman,  thinking  like  a  man  and  feeling 
like  a  woman.     You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,  Hubert. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      285 

I  hadn't  thought  of  it  like  that  before  myself,  but  when 
you  speak  the  words  I  feel  you  have  spoken  the  truth. 
I  suppose  I  was  wrong  to  put  off  my  petticoats  and  step 
into  those  trousers.  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that, 
Hubert  answered,  and  the  words  were  so  unexpected 
that  Albert  forgot  her  grief  for  a  moment  and  said :  why 
do  you  say  that,  Hubert?  Well,  because  I  was  thinking, 
he  replied,  that  you  might  marry.  But  I  was  never  a 
success  as  a  girl.  Men  didn't  look  at  me  then  so  I'm 
sure  they  wouldn't  now  I'm  a  middle-aged  woman. 
Marriage!  whom  should  I  marry?  No,  there's  no  mar- 
riage for  me  in  the  world,  I  must  go  on  being  a  man. 
But  you  won't  tell  on  me,  you've  promised,  Hubert.  Of 
course  I  won't  tell,  but  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't 
marry.  What  do  you  mean,  Hubert?  You  aren't  putting 
a  joke  upon  me,  are  you?  If  you  are  it's  very  unkind.  A 
joke  upon  you?  no,  Hubert  answered.  I  didn't  mean  that 
you  should  marry  a  man  but  you  might  marry  a  girl. 
Marry  a  girl?  Albert  repeated,  her  eyes  wide  open  and 
staring.  A  girl?  Well,  anyway,  that's  what  I've  done, 
Hubert  replied.  But  you're  a  young  man  and  a  very 
handsome  young  man  too.  Any  girl  would  like  to  have 
you,  and  I  daresay  they  were  all  after  you  before  you  met 
the  right  girl.  I'm  not  a  young  man,  I'm  a  woman, 
Hubert  replied.  Now  I  know  for  certain,  cried  Albert, 
you're  putting  a  joke  upon  me.  A  woman!  Yes,  a 
woman,  you  can  feel  for  yourself  if  you  don't  believe  me. 
Put  your  hand  under  my  shirt;  you'll  find  nothing  there. 
Albert  moved  away  instinctively,  her  modesty  having 
been  shocked.  You  see  I  offered  myself  like  that  feeling 
you  couldn't  take  my  word  for  it.  It  isn't  a  thing  there 
can  be  any  doubt  about.  Oh,  I  believe  you,  Albert 
replied.  And  now  that  that  matter  is  settled,  Hubert 
began,  perhaps  you'd  like  to  hear  my  story,  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer  she  related  the  story  of  her 
unhappy  marriage:  her  husband,  a  house-painter,  had 


286      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

changed  towards  her  altogether  after  the  birth  of  her 
second  child,  leaving  her  without  money  for  food  and 
selling  up  the  home  twice.  At  last  I  decided  to  have 
another  cut  at  it,  Hubert  went  on,  and  catching  sight  of 
my  husband's  working  clothes  one  day  I  said  to  myself: 
he's  often  made  me  put  these  on  and  go  out  and  help  him 
with  his  job,  why  shouldn't  I  put  them  on  for  myself 
and  go  away  for  good?  I  didn't  like  leaving  the  children, 
but  I  couldn't  remain  with  him.  But  the  marriage? 
Albert  asked.  It  was  lonely  going  home  to  an  empty 
room:  I  was  as  lonely  as  you,  and  one  day,  meeting  a 
girl  as  lonely  as  myself,  I  said:  come  along,  and  we 
arranged  to  live  together,  each  paying  our  share.  She 
had  her  work  and  I  had  mine,  and  between  us  we  made 
a  fair  living,  and  this  I  can  say  with  truth  that  we 
haven't  known  an  unhappy  hour  since  we  married. 
People  began  to  talk  so  we  had  to.  I'd  like  you  to  see 
our  home.  I  always  return  to  my  home  after  a  job  is 
finished  with  a  light  heart  and  leave  it  with  a  heavy  one. 
But  I  don't  understand,  Albert  said.  What  don't  you 
understand?  Hubert  asked.  Whatever  Albert's  thoughts 
were,  they  faded  from  her,  and  her  eyelids  dropped  over 
her  eyes.  You're  falling  asleep,  Hubert  said,  and  I'm 
doing  the  same.  It  must  be  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
and  I've  to  catch  the  five-o'clock  train.  I  can't  think  now 
of  what  I  was  going  to  ask  you,  Albert  muttered,  but 
you'll  tell  me  in  the  morning,  and  turning  over,  she  made 
a  place  for  Hubert. 


CHAPTER  48. 

WHAT  has  become  of  him?  Albert  said,  rousing 
herself,  and  then,  remembering  that  Hubert's  in- 
tention was  to  catch  the  early  train,  she  began  to 
remember.     His   train,   she   said,   started   from   Amiens 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      287 

Street  at I  must  have  slept  heavily  for  him — for  her 

not  to  have  awakened  me  or  she  must  have  stolen  away 
very  quietly.  But,  lord  amassy,  what  time  is  it?  And 
seeing  she  had  overslept  herself  a  full  hour,  she  began  to 
dress  herself,  muttering  all  the  while:  such  a  thing  never 
happened  to  me  before.  And  the  hotel  as  full  as  it  can 
hold.  Why  didn't  they  send  for  me?  The  missis  had  a 
thought  of  my  bed-fellow,  mayhap,  and  let  me  sleep  it 
out.  I  told  her  I  shouldn't  close  an  eye  till  she  left  me. 
But  I  mustn't  fall  into  the  habit  of  sheing  him.  Lord, 
if  the  missis  knew  everything!  But  I've  overslept  myself 
a  full  hour,  and  if  nobody  has  been  up  before  somebody 
soon  will  be.  The  greater  the  haste  the  less  speed.  All 
the  same,  despite  the  difficulty  of  finding  her  clothes, 
Albert  was  at  work  on  her  landing  some  twenty  minutes 
after,  running  up  and  down  the  stairs,  preparing  for  the 
different  breakfasts  in  the  half-dozen  sitting-rooms  given 
to  her  charge,  driving  everybody  before  her,  saying: 
we're  late  to-day,  and  the  house  full  of  visitors.  How  is 
it  that  54  isn't  turned  out?  Has  35  rung  his  bell?  Lord, 
Albert,  said  a  housemaid,  I  wouldn't  worry  my  fat  because 
I  was  down  late,  once  in  a  way  don't  hurt.  And  sitting 
up  half  the  night  talking  to  Mr  Page,  said  another  maid, 
and  then  rounding  on  us.  Half  the  night  talking, 
Albert  repeated.  My  bed-fellow!  Where  is  Mr  Page? 
I  didn't  hear  him  go  away;  he  may  have  missed  his  train 
for  aught  I  know.  But  do  you  be  getting  on  with  your 
work,  and  let  me  be  getting  on  with  mine.  You're  very 
cross  this  morning,  Albert,  the  maid-servant  muttered, 
and  retired  to  chatter  with  two  other  maids  who  were 
looking  over  the  banisters  at  the  time. 

Well,  Mr   Nobbs the  head   porter  began,  when 

Albert  came  running  downstairs  to  see  some  visitors  off, 
and  to  receive  his  tips :  well,  Mr  Nobbs,  how  did  you  find 
your  bed-fellow?  Oh,  he  was  all  right,  but  I'm  not  used  to 
bed-fellows,  and  he  brought  a  flea  with  him,  and  it  kept 


288      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

me  awake;  and  when  I  did  fall  asleep,  I  slept  so  heavily 
that  I  was  an  hour  late.  I  hope  he  caught  his  train. 
But  what  is  all  this  pother  about  bed-fellows?  Albert 
asked  himself,  as  she  returned  to  her  landing.  Page 
hasn't  said  anything,  no,  she's  said  nothing,  for  we're  both 
in  the  same  boat,  and  to  tell  on  me  would  be  to  tell  on 
herself.  I'd  never  have  believed  if — —  Albert's  modesty 
prevented  her  from  finishing  the  sentence.  She's  a 
woman  right  enough.  But  the  cheek  of  it,  to  marry  an 
innocent  girl!  Did  she  let  the  girl  into  the  secret,  or 
leave  her  to  find  it  out  when 

This  was  a  question  one  might  ponder  on,  and  by 
luncheon  time  Albert  was  inclined  to  believe  that  Hubert 

told   her   wife   before She   couldn't  have  had  the 

cheek  to  wed  her,  Albert  said,  without  warning  her  that 
things  might  not  turn  out  as  she  fancied.  Mayhap, 
Albert  continued,  she  didn't  tell  her  before  they  wedded 
and  mayhap  she  did,  and  being  one  of  them  like  myself 
that  isn't  always  hankering  after  a  man,  she  was  glad  to 
live  with  Hubert  for  companionship.  Albert  tried  to 
remember  the  exact  words  that  Hubert  had  used.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  Hubert  had  said  that  she  lived  with  a 
girl  first,  and  wedded  her  to  put  a  stop  to  people's  scandal. 
Of  course  they  could  hardly  live  together  except  as  man 
and  wife.  She  remembered  Hubert  saying  that  she 
always  returned  home  with  a  light  heart  and  never  left  it 
without  a  heavy  one.  So  it  would  seem  that  this  mar- 
riage was  as  successful  as  any,  and  a  great  deal  more  than 
the  majority. 

At  that  moment  35  rang  his  bell.  Albert  hurried 
to  answer  it,  and  several  hours  wore  away  before  a  moment 
propitious  to  reverie  occurred  again. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  between  nine  and  ten 
o'clock,  when  the  guests  were  away  at  the  theatres  and 
concerts,  and  nobody  was  about  but  two  maids;  it  was 
when  these  had  ceased  to  trouble  her  with  chatter  that 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      289 

Albert,  with  her  napkin  over  her  shoulder,  dozed  and 
meditated  on  the  advice  that  Hubert  had  given  her. 
She  should  marry,  Hubert  had  said;  Hubert  had  married. 
Of  course  it  wasn't  a  real  marriage,  it  couldn't  be  that, 
but  a  very  happy  one  it  would  seem.  But  the  girl  must 
have  understood  that  she  was  not  marrying  a  man.  Did 
Hubert  tell  her  before  marriage  or  after  marriage,  and 
what  were  the  words?  It  seemed  to  her  she  would  give 
a  great  deal  to  know  the  exact  words.  After  all  I've 
worked  hard,  she  said,  and  her  thoughts  melted  away 
into  a  long  meditation  of  what  her  life  had  been  for  the 
last  five  and  twenty  years,  a  mere  drifting,  it  seemed  to 
her  to  have  been,  from  one  hotel  to  another,  without 
friends;  meeting,  it  is  true,  sometimes  men  and  women 
who  seemed  willing  to  be  friendly.  But  her  secret 
had  forced  her  to  live  apart  from  both  sexes;  the  clothes 
she  wore  smothered  the  woman  within  her;  she  no 
longer  thought  and  felt  as  she  used  to  when  she  was  a 
woman,  and  she  didn't  think  and  feel  like  a  man ;  a  mere 
appearance,  nothing  more;  no  wonder  she  was  lonely. 
But  Hubert  had  put  off  her  sex,  so  she  said,  and  the 
suspicion  that  she  had  put  a  joke  upon  her  rose  up  in  her 
mind  and  died  away  into  a  long  dream  of  what  Hubert's 
home  was  like.  Why  had  she  not  asked  for  particulars? 
That's  54  again,  one  of  the  maids  called  from  the 
end  of  the  passage,  and  when  Albert  had  received  54's 
order  and  executed  it,  she  returned  to  her  seat  in  the 
passage,  her  napkin  over  her  shoulder,  and  resumed  her 
reverie.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Hubert  had  mentioned 
that  her  wife  was  a  milliner;  she  may  not  have  spoken 
the  word  milliner,  but  if  she  hadn't,  it  was  strange  that 
the  word  should  keep  on  coming  up  in  her  mind.  There 
was  no  reason  why  the  wife  shouldn't  be  a  milliner, 
and  if  that  were  so  it  was  as  likely  as  not  they  owned  a 
house  in  some  quiet,  insignificant  street,  letting  the  dining- 
room,  back  room  and  kitchen  to  a  widow  or  to  a  pair  of 


290      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

widows.  The  drawing-room  was  the  workroom  and  show- 
room; Page  and  his  wife  slept  in  the  room  above.  On 
second  thought  it  seemed  to  Albert  that  if  the  business 
were  millinery  it  might  be  that  Mrs  Page  would  prefer 
the  ground  floor  for  her  showroom.  A  third  and  fourth 
distribution  of  the  rooms  presented  itself  to  Albert's 
imagination.  On  thinking  the  matter  over  again  it  seemed 
to  her  that  Hubert  had  not  spoken  of  a  millinery  business; 
that  was  a  mistake;  she  had  said  her  wife  was  a  seam- 
stress. Now  if  that  were  so,  a  small  dressmaker's  business 
in  a  quiet  street  would  be  in  keeping  with  all  Hubert 
said  about  the  home.  Albert  was  not  sure,  however, 
that  if  she  found  a  girl  willing  to  share  her  life  with  her, 
it  would  be  a  seamstress's  business  she  would  be  on  the 
look-out  for.  She  thought  that  a  sweetmeat  shop,  news- 
papers and  tobacco  would  be  her  choice. 

Why  shouldn't  she  make  a  fresh  start?  Hubert  had 
foreseen  no  difficulties.  She  had  said — Albert  could 
recall  the  very  words — I  didn't  mean  you  should  marry 
a  man,  but  a  girl.  She  had  saved,  oh!  how  she  had  tried 
to  save,  for  she  didn't  wish  to  end  her  days  in  the 
workhouse.  She  had  saved  upwards  of  five  hundred 
pounds,  which  was  quite  enough  to  purchase  a  little 
business,  and  her  heart  dilated  as  she  thought  of  her  two 
successful  investments  in  house  property.  In  six  months' 
time  she  hoped  to  have  six  hundred  pounds,  and  if  it  took 
her  two  years  to  find  a  partner  and  a  business,  she  would 
have  at  least  seventy  or  eighty  pounds  more,  which  would 
be  a  great  help,  for  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  put  one's 
money  into  a  falling  business.  If  she  found  a  partner! 
she'd  have  to  do  like  Hubert;  for  marriage  would  put  a 
stop  to  all  tittle-tattle;  she'd  be  able  to  keep  her  place 
at  Morrison's  Hotel,  or  perhaps  leave  Morrison's  and  rely 
on  jobs;  and  with  her  connection  it  would  be  a  case 
of  picking  and  choosing  the  best:  ten  and  sixpence  a 
night,  nothing  under.     She  dreamed  of  a  round.     Belfast, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      291 

Liverpool,  Manchester,  Bradford  rose  up  in  her  imagina- 
tion, and  after  a  month's  absence,  a  couple  of  months 
maybe,  she  would  return  home,  her  heart  anticipating 
a  welcome — a  real  welcome,  for  though  she  would  con- 
tinue to  be  a  man  to  the  world,  she  would  be  a  woman 
to  the  dear  one  at  home.  With  a  real  partner,  one  whose 
heart  was  in  the  business,  they  might  make  as  much 
as  two  hundred  pounds  a  year — four  pounds  a  week! 
And  with  four  pounds  a  week  their  home  would  be  as 
pretty  and  happy  as  any  in  the  city  of  Dublin.  Two 
rooms  and  a  kitchen  were  what  she  foresaw.  The 
furniture  began  to  creep  into  her  imagination  little  by 
little.  A  large  sofa  by  the  fireplace  covered  with  a  chintz ! 
But  chintz  dirtied  quickly  in  the  city;  a  dark  velvet  sofa 
might  be  more  suitable.  It  would  cost  a  great  deal  of 
money,  five  or  six  pounds;  and  at  that  rate  fifty  pounds 
wouldn't  go  very  far,  for  they  must  have  a  fine  double- 
bed  mattress;  and  if  they  were  going  to  do  things  in  that 
style,  the  home  would  cost  them  eighty  pounds.  With 
luck  these  eighty  pounds  could  be  earned  within  the 
next  two  years  at  Morrison's  Hotel. 

Albert  ran  over  in  her  mind  the  tips  she  had  received: 
the  people  in  34  were  leaving  to-morrow.  They 
were  always  good  for  half-a-sovereign,  and  she  decided 
there  and  then  that  to-morrow's  half  sovereign  must 
be  put  aside  as  a  beginning  of  a  sum  of  money  for  the 
purchase  of  a  clock  to  stand  on  a  marble  chimney-piece 
or  a  mahogany  chiffonier.  A  few  days  after  she  got  a 
sovereign  from  a  departing  guest,  and  it  revealed  a  pair 
of  pretty  candlesticks  and  a  round  mirror.  Her  tips  were 
no  longer  mere  white  and  yellow  metal  stamped  with 
the  effigy  of  a  dead  king  or  a  living  queen,  but  symbols 
of  the  future  life  that  awaited  her.  An  unexpected 
crown  set  her  pondering  on  the  colour  of  the  curtains 
in  their  sitting-room,  and  Albert  became  suddenly  con- 
scious that  a  change  had  come  into  her  life:  the  show 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

was  the  same — carrying  plates  and  dishes  upstairs  and 
downstairs,  and  taking  orders  for  drinks  and  cigars; 
but  behind  the  show  a  new  life  was  springing  up — a 
life  strangely  personal  and  associated  with  the  life 
without  only  in  this  much,  that  the  life  without  was 
now  a  vassal  state  paying  tribute  to  the  life  within. 
She  wasn't  as  good  a  servant  as  heretofore.  She  knew 
it.  Certain  absences  of  mind,  that  was  all;  and  the 
servants  as  they  went  by  with  their  dusters  began  to 
wonder  whatever  Albert  could  be  dreaming  of. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  furnishing  of  the  parlour 
at  the  back  of  the  shop  was  completed,  likewise  that  of 
the  bedroom  above  the  shop,  and  Albert  had  just  entered 
on  another  dream — a  dream  of  a  shop  with  two  counters, 
one  at  which  cigars,  tobacco,  pipes  and  matches  were 
sold,  and  at  the  other  all  kinds  of  sweetmeats,  a  shop 
with  a  door  leading  to  her  wife's  parlour.  A  changing 
figure  the  wife  was  in  Albert's  imagination,  turning  from 
fair  to  dark,  from  plump  to  slender,  but  capturing 
her  imagination  equally  in  all  her  changes;  some- 
times she  was  accompanied  by  a  child  of  three  or  four, 
a  boy,  the  son  of  a  dead  man,  for  in  one  of  her  dreams 
Albert  married  a  widow.  In  another  and  more  frequent 
dream  she  married  a  woman  who  had  transgressed  the 
moral  code  and  been  deserted  before  the  birth  of  her 
child.  In  this  case  it  would  be  supposed  that  Albert 
had  done  the  right  thing,  for  after  leading  the  girl  astray 
he  had  made  an  honest  woman  of  her.  Albert  would 
be  the  father  in  everybody's  eyes  except  the  mother's, 
and  she  hoped  that  the  child's  mother  would  outgrow 
all  the  memory  of  the  accidental  seed  sown,  as  the  saying 
runs,  in  a  foolish  five  minutes. 

A  child  would  be  a  pleasure  to  them  both,  and  a  girl 
in  the  family  way  appealed  to  her  more  than  a  widow; 
a  girl  that  some  soldier,  the  boot-boy  or  the  hotel  porter 
had  gotten  into  trouble;  and  Albert  kept  her  eyes  and 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      293 

ears  open,  hoping  to  rescue  from  her  precarious  situation 
one  of  those  unhappy  girls  that  were  always  cropping  up 
in  Morrison's  Hotel.  Several  had  had  to  leave  the  hotel  last 
year  but  not  one  this  year.  But  some  revivalist  meetings 
were  going  to  be  held  in  Dublin.  Many  of  our  girls  attend 
them,  and  an  unlucky  girl  will  be  in  luck's  way  if  we 
should  run  across  one  another.  Her  thoughts  passed  into 
a  dream  of  the  babe  that  would  come  into  the  world  some 
three  or  four  months  after  their  marriage,  her  little 
soft  hands  and  expressive  eyes  claiming  their  protection, 
asking  for  it.  What  matter  whether  she  calls  me  father 
or  mother?  They  are  but  mere  words  that  the  lips  speak, 
but  love  is  in  the  heart  and  only  love  matters. 


CHAPTER  49. 

NOW  whatever  can  Albert  be  brooding?  an  idle  house- 
maid asked  herself  as  she  went  by,  nicking  her  duster. 
Is  he  in  love?  is  he  brooding  a  marriage?  Which  of  us? 
or  perhaps  it's  some  girl  outside! 

That  Albert  was  brooding  something,  that  there  was 
something  on  his  mind,  became  the  talk  of  the  hotel,  and 
soon  after  it  came  to  be  noticed  that  Albert,  who  till  now 
had  showed  little  desire  to  leave  the  hotel,  was  eager  to 
avail  himself  of  every  excuse  to  absent  himself  from  duty 
in  the  hotel.  He  had  been  seen  in  the  smaller  streets 
looking  up  at  the  houses.  He  had  saved  a  good  deal 
of  money,  and  some  of  his  savings  were  invested  in  house 
property,  so  it  was  possible  that  his  presence  in  these 
streets  might  be  explained  by  the  supposition  that  he 
was  investing  new  sums  of  money  in  house  property,  or, 
and  it  was  the  second  suggestion  that  stimulated  the 
imagination,  that  Albert  was  going  to  be  married  and  was 
looking  out  for  a  house  for  his  wife. 

Albert  had  been  seen  talking  with  Annie  Watts;  but 


294      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

she  was  not  in  the  family  way  after  all,  and  despite  her 
wistful  eyes  and  gentle  voice  she  was  not  chosen.  Her 
heart  is  not  in  her  work,  Albert  said;  she  thinks  only 
of  when  she  can  get  out,  and  that  isn't  the  sort  for  a  shop, 
whereas  Dorothy  Keyes  was  a  glutton  for  work,  but  Albert 
couldn't  abide  the  tall,  angular  woman,  built  like  a  boy, 
with  a  neck  like  a  swan's.  Besides  her  unattractive  appear- 
ance, her  manner  was  abrupt.  But  Alice's  small,  neat  figure 
and  quick  intelligence  marked  her  out  for  the  job.  Alas! 
Alice  was  hot-tempered.  We  should  quarrel,  Albert  said, 
and  picking  up  her  napkin,  which  had  slipped  from  her 
knee  to  the  floor,  she  fell  to  thinking  of  the  maids  on 
the  floor  above.  A  certain  stateliness  of  figure  and  also 
of  gait  put  the  thought  into  her  mind  that  Mary  O'Brien 
would  make  an  attractive  shop  woman.  But  her  second 
thoughts  were  that  Mary  O'Brien  was  a  Papist,  and 
the  experience  of  Irish  Protestants  shows  that  Papists 
and  Protestants  don't  mix. 

She  had  just  begun  to  consider  the  next  housemaid, 
when  a  voice  interrupted  her  musing.  That  lazy  girl, 
Annie  Watts,  on  the  lookout  for  an  excuse  to  chatter  the 
time  away  instead  of  being  about  her  work,  were  the  words 
that  crossed  Albert's  mind  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  so 
unwelcoming  were  they  that  Annie  in  her  nervousness 
began  to  hesitate  and  stammer,  unable  for  the  moment  to 
find  a  subject,  plunging  at  last,  and  rather  awkwardly,  into 
the  news  of  the  arrival  of  the  new  kitchen-maid,  Helen 
Dawes,  but  never  dreaming  that  the  news  could  have  any 
interest  for  Albert.  To  her  surprise,  Albert's  eyes  lighted 
up,     Do  you  know  her?  Annie  asked.     Know  her?  Albert 

answered.   No,  I  don't  know  her,  but At  that  moment 

a  bell  rang.  Oh,  bother,  Annie  said,  and  while  she  moved 
away  idling  along  the  banisters,  Albert  hurried  down  the 
passage. 

No.  47  wanted  writing-paper  and  envelopes;  he 
couldn't  write  with  the  pens  the  hotel  furnished,  would 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      295 

Albert  be  so  kind  as  to  ask  the  page-boy  to  fetch  some 
J's.  With  pleasure,  Albert  said;  with  pleasure.  Would 
you  like  to  have  the  writing-paper  and  envelopes  before 
the  boy  returns  with  the  pens,  sir?  The  visitor  answered 
that  the  writing-paper  and  envelopes  would  be  of  no  use 
to  him  till  he  had  gotten  the  pens.  With  pleasure,  sir; 
with  pleasure;  and  whilst  waiting  for  the  page  to  return 
she  passed  through  the  swing  doors  and  searched  for  a  new 
face  among  the  different  young  women  passing  to  and  fro 
between  the  white-aproned  and  white-capped  chefs,  bring- 
ing the  dishes  to  the  great  zinc  counter  that  divided  the 
kitchen-maids  and  scullions  from  the  waiters.  She  must 
be  here,  she  said,  and  returned  again  to  the  kitchen  in  the 
hope  of  meeting  the  new-comer,  Helen  Dawes,  who,  when 
she  was  found,  proved  to  be  very  unlike  the  Helen  Dawes 
of  Albert's  imagination.  A  thick-set,  almost  swarthy  girl 
of  three  and  twenty,  rather  under  than  above  the  medium 
height,  with  white,  even  teeth,  but  unfortunately  protrud- 
ing, giving  her  the  appearance  of  a  rabbit.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  be  dark  brown,  but  on  looking  into  them  Albert 
discovered  them  to  be  grey-green,  round  eyes  that  dilated 
and  flashed  wonderfully  while  she  talked.  Her  face 
lighted  up;  and  there  was  a  vindictiveness  in  her  voice 
that  appeared  and  disappeared;  Albert  suspected  her, 
and  was  at  once  frightened  and  attracted.  Vindictiveness 
in  her  voice!  How  could  such  a  thought  have  come 
into  my  mind?  she  said  a  few  days  after.  A  more  kindly 
girl  it  would  be  difficult  to  find.  How  could  I  have  been 
so  stupid?  She  is  one  of  those,  Albert  continued,  that 
will  be  a  success  in  everything  she  undertakes,  and  dreams 
began  soon  after  that  the  sweetstuff  and  tobacco  shop 
could  hardly  fail  to  prosper  under  her  direction.  One 
thing  was  certain;  nobody  could  befool  that  girl.  A  girl 
with  a  head  on  her  shoulders,  she  continued,  is  a  pearl. 
I  shall  feel  certain  when  I  am  away  at  work  everything 
will  be  all  right  at  home. 


296      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

It's  a  pity  that  she  isn't  in  the  family  way.  It  would 
be  pleasant  to  have  a  little  one  running  about  the  shop 
asking  for  lemon  drops  and  to  hear  him  calling  us  father 
and  mother.  And  it  was  with  a  wrench  that  Albert 
renounced  for  ever  hope  of  a  son.  At  that  moment  a 
strange  thought  flitted  across  Albert's  mind — after  all,  it 
could  not  matter  to  her  if  Helen  were  to  get  into  the 
family  way  later,  when  they  were  settled.  But  she  wasn't 
sure  that  it  wouldn't  matter.  It  is  a  man  always  that 
divides  women,  and  sets  the  friendship  of  years  at  naught. 
It  might  be  better  to  choose  an  older  woman;  it  might 
be  better,  but  Albert  was  unable  to  keep  herself  from 
asking  Helen  to  walk  out  with  her,  and  the  next  time 
they  met  the  words  slipped  out  of  her  mouth:   I  shall  be 

off  duty  at  three  to-day,  and  if  you're  not  engaged 

I'm  off  duty  at  three,  Helen  answered.  Are  you  engaged? 
Albert  asked.  Helen  hesitated,  it  being  the  truth  that 
she  had  been  and  was  still  walking  out  with  one  of  the 
scullions,  and  was  not  sure  how  he'd  look  upon  her 
going  out  with  another,  even  though  that  one  was  such  a 
harmless  fellow  as  Albert  Nobbs.  Harmless  in  himself, 
she  thought,  and  with  a  good  smell  of  money  rising  out  of 
his  pockets,  very  different  from  Joe,  who  seldom  had  a 
train  fare  upon  him.  But  she  hankered  after  Joe,  and 
wouldn't  give  Albert  a  promise  till  she  had  asked  him. 
Wants  to  walk  out  with  you?  Why,  he's  never  been 
known  to  walk  out  with  man,  woman  or  child  before. 
Well,  that's  a  good  one!  I'd  like  to  know  what  he's 
after,  and  I'm  not  jealous;  you  can  go  out  with  him, 
there's  no  harm  in  Albert.  I'm  on  duty:  just  go  for  a 
turn  with  him.  Poke  him  up  and  see  what  he's  after, 
and  take  him  into  a  sweetshop  and  bring  back  a  box  of 
chocolates;  we'll  share  them  together.  Do  you  like 
chocolates?  Helen  asked,  and,  her  eyes  flashing,  she 
stood  looking  at  Joe,  who,  thinking  that  her  temper 
was  rising,  and  wishing  to  quell  it,  asked  hurriedly  where 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      297 

she  was  going  to  meet  him.  At  the  corner,  she  answered. 
He's  there  already.  Then  be  off,  he  said,  and  his  tone 
grated.  You  wouldn't  like  me  to  keep  him  waiting? 
Helen  said.  Oh,  dear  no,  not  for  Joe,  not  for  Joseph,  if 
he  knows  it,  the  scullion  replied,  lilting  the  song. 

Helen  turned  away,  hoping  that  none  of  the  maids 
would  peach  upon  her,  and  Albert's  heart  rejoiced  at 
seeing  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  waiting  for 
the  tram  to  go  by  before  she  crossed  it.  Were  you 
afraid  I  wasn't  coming?  she  asked,  and  Albert,  not  be- 
ing ready  with  words,  answered  shyly:  not  very.  A 
stupid  answer  this  seemed  to  be  to  Helen,  and  it  was 
in  the  hope  of  shuffling  out  of  a  tiresome  silence  that 
Albert  asked  her  if  she  liked  chocolates.  Something 
under  the  tooth  will  help  the  time  away,  was  the  answer 
she  got;  and  they  went  in  search  of  a  sweetmeat  shop, 
Albert  thinking  that  a  shilling  or  one  and  sixpence  would 
see  her  through  it.  But  in  a  moment  Helen's  eyes  were  all 
over  the  shop,  and  spying  out  quickly  some  large  pictured 
boxes,  she  asked  Albert  if  she  might  have  one,  and  it 
being  their  first  day  out,  Albert  answered,  yes;  but  she 
could  not  keep  back  the  words:  I'm  afraid  they'd  cost 
a  lot. 

Helen's  face  blackened,  and  she  shook  up  her  shoulders 
disdainfully,  so  frightening  Albert  that  she  pressed  a 
second  box  on  Helen — one  to  pass  the  time  with,  another 
to  take  home.  To  such  a  show  of  good  will  Helen  felt 
she  must  respond  and  her  tongue  rattled  on  pleasantly 
as  she  walked,  crunching  the  chocolates,  two  between 
each  lamp-post,  Albert  stinting  herself  to  one,  which 
she  sucked  slowly,  hardly  enjoying  it  at  all,  so  worried 
was  she  by  the  loss  of  three  and  sixpence.  As  if  Helen 
guessed  the  cause  of  Albert's  disquiet,  she  called  on  her 
suitor  to  admire  the  damsel  on  the  box,  but  Albert 
could  not  disengage  her  thoughts  sufficiently  from 
Helen's  expensive  tastes.     If  every  walk  were  to  cost 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

three  and  sixpence  there  wouldn't  be  a  lot  left  for  the 
home  in  six  months'  time.  And  she  fell  to  calculating 
how  much  it  would  cost  her  if  they  were  to  walk  out  once 
a  week.  Three  fours  are  twelve  and  four  sixpences  are 
two  shillings,  fourteen  shillings  a  month,  twice  that  is 
twenty-eight;  twenty -eight  shillings  a  month,  that  is 
if  Helen  wanted  two  boxes  a  week.  At  this  rate  she'd 
be  spending  sixteen  pounds,  sixteen  shillings  a  year. 
Lord  amassy!  But  perhaps  Helen  wouldn't  want  two 
boxes  of  chocolates  every  time  they  went  out  to- 
gether^      If  she  didn't,  she'd  want  other  things,  and 

catching  sight  of  a  jeweller's  shop,  Albert  called  Helen's 
attention  to  a  cyclist  that  had  only  just  managed  to 
escape  a  tram  car  by  a  sudden  wriggle.  But  Albert  was 
always  unlucky.  Helen  had  been  wishing  this  long  while 
for  a  bicycle,  and  if  she  did  not  ask  Albert  to  buy  her  one 
it  was  because  another  jeweller's  came  into  view.  She 
stopped  to  gaze  for  a  moment.  Albert's  heart  seemed  to 
stand  still,  but  Helen  continued  her  chocolates,  secure 
in  her  belief  that  the  time  had  not  yet  come  for  sub- 
stantial presents. 

At  Sackville  Street  bridge  Helen  thought  she  would 
like  to  turn  back,  having  little  taste  for  the  meaner  parts 
of  the  city,  but  Albert  wished  to  show  her  the  north  side, 
and  she  began  to  wonder  what  he  could  find  to  interest 
him  in  these  streets,  and  why  he  should  stand  in  admira- 
tion before  all  the  small  newspaper  and  tobacco  shops, 
till  she  remembered  suddenly  that  he  had  invested 
his  savings  in  house  property.  Could  these  be  his 
houses?  All  his  own?  and,  moved  by  this  consideration, 
she  gave  a  more  attentive  ear  to  his  account  of  the  daily 
taking  of  these  shops. 

Albert  was  a  richer  man  than  anybody  believed  him 
to  be,  but  he  was  a  mean  one.  The  idea  of  his  thinking 
twice  about  a  box  of  chocolates!  I'll  show  him,  and  she 
began  to  regret  she  had  not  stopped  in  front  of  a  big 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      299 

draper's  shop  in  Sackville  Street  and  asked  him  for  a  pair 
of  six-button  gloves,  and  resolved  to  make  amends  for 
her  slackness,  and  would  ask  Albert  for  a  parasol  the  next 
time  they  went  out  together.  She  needed  one,  and  some 
shoes  and  stockings,  and  a  silk  kerchief  would  not  be 
amiss,  and  at  the  end  of  the  third  month  of  their  court- 
ship it  seemed  to  her  that  the  time  had  come  for  her  to 
speak  of  bangles,  saying  that  for  three  pounds  she  could 
have  a  pretty  one — one  that  would  be  a  real  pleasure  to 
wear,  it  would  always  remind  her  of  him.  Albert  coughed 
up  with  humility,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  "got  him," 
as  she  put  it  to  herself,  and  afterwards  to  Joe  Mackins. 

So  he  parted  easily,  Joe  remarked,  and  pushing  Helen 
aside  he  began  to  whip  up  the  rimoulade,  that  had  begun 
to  show  signs  of  turning,  saying  he'd  have  the  chef  after 
him.  But  I  say,  old  girl,  since  he's  coughing  up  so  easily 
you  might  bring  me  something  back;  and  a  briar-wood 
pipe  and  a  pound  or  two  of  tobacco  seemed  the  least  she 
might  obtain  for  him.  And  Helen  answered  that  to  get 
these  she  would  have  to  ask  Albert  for  money.  And  why 
shouldn't  you?  Joe  returned.  Ask  him  for  a  thin  'un, 
and  mayhap  he'll  give  you  a  thick  'un.  It's  the  first  quid 
that's  hard  to  get;  every  time  after  it  is  like  shelling  peas. 
Do  you  think  he's  that  far  gone  on  me?  Helen  asked. 
Well,  don't  you?  Why  should  he  give  you  these  things 
if  he  wasn't?  Joe  answered. 

Helen  fell  to  thinking,  Joe  asked  her  of  what  she  was 
thinking,  and  she  replied  that  it  was  difficult  to  say:  she 
had  walked  out  with  many  a  man  before  but  never  with 
one  like  Albert  Nobbs.  In  what  way  is  he  different?  Joe 
asked.  Helen  was  perplexed  in  her  telling  of  Albert 
Nobbs'  slackness.  You  mean  that  he  doesn't  pull  you 
about,  Joe  rapped  out;  and  she  answered  that  there  was 
something  of  that  in  it.  All  the  same,  she  continued, 
that  isn't  the  whole  of  it.  I've  been  out  before  with 
men  that  didn't  pull  me  about,  but  he  seems  to  have 


300      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

something  on  his  mind,  and  half  the  time  he's  thinking. 
Well,  what  does  it  matter,  Joe  asked,  so  long  as  there 
is  coin  in  the  pocket  and  so  long  as  you  have  a  hand  to 
pull  it  out?  Helen  didn't  like  this  description  of  Albert 
Nobbs'  courtship,  and  the  words  rose  to  her  lips  to  tell 
Joseph  that  she  didn't  want  to  go  out  any  more  with 
Albert,  that  she  was  tired  of  the  job,  but  the  words  were 
quelled  on  her  lips  by  a  remark  from  Joe.  Next  time 
you  go  out  with  him  work  him  up  a  bit  and  see  what 
he  is  made  of;  just  see  if  there's  a  sting  in  him  or  if 
he  is  no  better  than  a  capon.  A  capon!  And  what  is 
a  capon?  she  asked.  A  capon  is  a  cut  fowl.  He  may 
be  like  one.  She  resolved  to  get  at  the  truth  of  the 
matter  next  time  they  went  out  together.  It  did  seem 
odd  that  he  should  be  willing  to  buy  presents  and  not 
want  to  kiss  her.  In  fact,  it  was  more  than  odd.  It 
might  be  as  Joe  had  said.  I  might  as  well  go  out  with 
my  mother.    Now  what  did  it  all  mean?    Was  it  a  blind? 

Some  other  girl  that  he Not  being  able  to  concoct 

a  sufficiently  reasonable  story,  Helen  relinquished  the 
attempt,  without,  however,  regaining  control  of  her 
temper,  which  had  begun  to  rise,  and  which  continued 
to  boil  up  in  her  and  overflow  till  her  swarthy  face  was 
almost  ugly.     I'm  beginning  to  feel  ugly  towards  him,  she 

said  to  herself.     He  is  either  in  love  with  me  or  he's 

And  trying  to  discover  his  purpose,  she  descended  the 
staircase,  saying  to  herself:  now  Albert  must  know  that 
I'm  partial  to  Joe  Mackins.  It  can't  be  that  he  doesn't 
suspect.     Well,  I'm  damned. 


CHAPTER  50. 

T)UT  Helen's  perplexity  on  leaving  the  hotel  was  no 
*-*  greater  than  Albert's  as  she  stood  waiting  by  the 
kerb.   She  knew  that  Helen  carried  on  with  Joe  Mackins, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      301 

and  she  also  knew  that  Joe  Mackins  had  nothing  to  offer 
Helen  but  himself.  She  even  suspected  that  some 
of  the  money  she  had  given  to  Helen  had  gone  to 
purchase  pipes  and  tobacco  for  Joe:  a  certain  shrewd- 
ness is  not  inconsistent  with  innocence,  and  it  didn't 
trouble  her  much  that  Helen  was  perhaps  having  her  fling 
with  Joe  Mackins.  She  didn't  want  Helen  to  fall  into 
evil  ways,  but  it  was  better  for  her  to  have  her  fling  before 
than  after  marriage.  On  the  other  hand,  a  woman  that 
has  been  bedded  might  be  dissatisfied  to  settle  down  with 
another  woman,  though  the  home  offered  her  was  better 
than  any  she  could  get  from  a  man.  She  might  hanker 
after  children,  which  was  only  natural,  and  Albert  felt 
that  she  would  like  a  child  as  well  as  another.  A  child 
might  be  arranged  for  if  Helen  wanted  one,  but  it  would 
never  do  to  have  the  father  hanging  about  the  shop:  he 
would  have  to  be  got  rid  of  as  soon  as  Helen  was  in  the 
family  way.  But  could  he  be  got  rid  of?  Not  very  easily 
if  Joe  Mackins  was  the  father;  she  foresaw  trouble  and 
would  prefer  another  father,  almost  any  other.  But  why 
trouble  herself  about  the  father  of  Helen's  child  before 
she  knew  whether  Helen  would  send  Joe  packing,  which 
she'd  have  to  do  clearly  if  they  were  to  wed — she  and 
Helen.  Their  wedding  was  what  she  had  to  look  to, 
whether  she  should  confide  her  sex  to  Helen  to-night 
or  wait.  Why  not  to-night  as  well  as  to-morrow  night? 
she  asked  herself.  But  how  was  she  to  tell  it  to  Helen? 
Blurt  it  out — I've  something  to  tell  you,  Helen.  I'm 
not  a  man,  but  a  woman  like  yourself.  No,  that  wouldn't 
do.  How  did  Hubert  tell  her  wife  she  was  a  woman? 
If  she  had  only  asked  she'd  have  been  spared  all  this 
trouble.  After  hearing  Hubert's  story  she  should  have 
said:  I've  something  to  ask  you,  but  sleep  was  so  heavy 
on  their  eyelids  that  they  couldn't  think  any  more  and 
both  of  them  were  falling  asleep,  which  wasn't  to  be 
wondered  at,  for  they  had  been  talking  for  hours.     It  was 


302      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

on  her  mind  to  ask  how  her  wife  found  out.     Did  Hubert 

tell  her  or  did  the  wife .     Albert's  modesty  prevented 

her  from  pursuing  the  subject;  and  she  turned  on  herself, 
saying  that  she  could  not  leave  Helen  to  find  out  she 
was  a  woman;  of  that  she  was  certain,  and  of  that  only. 
She'd  have  to  tell  Helen  that.  But  should  the  confession 
come  before  they  were  married,  or  should  she  reserve  it 
for  the  wedding  night  in  the  bridal  chamber  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  afterwards.     If  it  were  not  for  Helen's  violent 

temper And  she  fell  to  thinking:  I  in  my  nightshirt, 

she  in  her  nightgown.  On  the  other  hand,  she  might 
quieten  down  after  an  outburst  and  begin  to  see  that  it 
might  be  very  much  to  her  advantage  to  accept  the  situa- 
tion, especially  if  a  hope  were  held  out  to  her  of  a  child 
by  Joe  Mackins  in  two  years'  time;  she'd  have  to  agree  to 
wait  till  then,  and  in  two  years  Joe  would  probably  be 
after  another  girl.  But  if  she  were  to  cut  up  rough  and 
do  me  an  injury!  Helen  might  call  the  neighbors  in, 
or  the  policeman,  who'd  take  them  both  to  the  station. 
She'd  have  to  return  to  Liverpool  or  to  Manchester.  She 
didn't  know  what  the  penalty  would  be  for  marrying  one 
of  her  own  sex.  She'd  have  to  catch  the  morning 
boat. 

One  of  the  advantages  of  Dublin  is  that  one  can  get 
out  of  it  as  easily  as  out  of  any  other  city.  Steamers  were 
always  leaving,  morning  and  evening;  she  didn't  know 
how  many,  but  a  great  many.  On  the  other  hand,  if  she 
took  the  straight  course  and  confined  her  sex  to  Helen 
before  the  marriage,  Helen  might  promise  not  to  tell; 
but  she  might  break  her  promise;  life  in  Morrison's 
Hotel  would  be  unendurable,  and  she'd  have  to  endure 
it.  What  a  hue  and  cry!  But  one  way  was  as  bad  as 
the  other.  If  she  had  only  asked  Hubert  Page,  but  she 
hadn't  a  thought  at  the  time  of  going  to  do  likewise. 
What's  one  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison,  and  she 
began  to  regret  Hubert's  confession  to  her.     If  it  hadn't 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      303 

been  for  that  flea  she  wouldn't  be  in  this  mess;  and  she 
was  deep  in  it!  Three  months'  company  isn't  a  day, 
and  everybody  in  Morrison's  Hotel  asking  whether  she 
or  Joe  Mackins  would  be  the  winner,  urging  her  to 
make  haste  else  Joe  would  come  with  a  rush  at  the 
finish.     A  lot  of  racing  talk  that  she  didn't  understand — or 

only  half.   If  she  could  get  out  of  this  mess  somehow 

But  it  was  too  late.  She  must  go  through  with  it.  But 
how?  A  different  sort  of  girl  altogether  was  needed,  but 
she  liked  Helen.  Her  way  of  standing  on  the  doorstep, 
her  legs  a  little  apart,  jawing  a  tradesman,  and  she'd 
stand  up  to  Mrs  Baker  and  to  the  chef  himself.  She 
liked  the  way  Helen's  eyes  lighted  up  when  a  thought 
came  into  her  mind;  her  cheery  laugh  warmed  Albert's 
heart  as  nothing  else  did.  Before  she  met  Helen  she 
often  feared  her  heart  was  growing  cold.  She  might 
try  the  world  over  and  not  find  one  that  would  run  the 
shop  she  had  in  mind  as  well  as  Helen.  But  the  shop 
wouldn't  wait,  and  at  that  moment  she  remembered  the 
letter  she  had  received  yesterday:  the  owners  of  the 
shop  would  withdraw  their  offer  if  it  was  not  accepted 
before  next  Monday. 

And  to-day  is  Friday,  Albert  said  to  herself.  This 
evening  or  never.  To-morrow  she'll  be  on  duty  all  day; 
on  Sunday  she'll  contrive  some  excuse  to  get  out  to  meet 
Joe  Mackins.  After  all,  why  not  this  evening?  for  what 
must  be  had  better  be  faced  bravely;  and  while  the  tram 
rattled  down  the  long  street,  Rathmines  Avenue,  past 
the  small  houses  atop  of  high  steps,  pretty  boxes  with 
ornamental  trees  in  the  gardens,  some  with  lawns,  with 
here  and  there  a  more  substantial  house  set  in  the  middle 
of  three  or  four  fields  at  least,  Albert  meditated,  plan 
after  plan  rising  up  in  her  mind;  and  when  the  car 
turned  to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left,  and  proceeded 
at  a  steady  pace  up  the  long  incline,  Rathgar  Avenue, 
Albert's  courage  was  again  at  ebb.    All  the  subterfuges 


304      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

she  had  woven — the  long  discussion  in  which  she  would 
maintain  that  marriage  should  not  be  considered  as 
a  sexual  adventure,  but  a  community  of  interests — 
seemed  to  have  lost  all  significance;  the  points  that  had 
seemed  so  convincing  in  Rathmines  Avenue  were  for- 
gotten in  Rathgar  Avenue,  and  at  Terenure  she  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  there  was  no  use  trying  to  think  the 
story  out  beforehand;  she  would  have  to  adapt  her  ideas 
to  the  chances  that  would  arise  as  they  talked  under  the 
trees  in  the  dusk  in  a  comfortable  hollow,  where  they 
could  lie  at  length  out  of  hearing  of  the  other  lads  and 
lasses  whom  they  would  find  along  the  banks,  resting 
after  the  labour  of  the  day  in  dim  contentment,  vaguely 
conscious  of  each  other,  satisfied  with  a  vague  remark,  a 
kick  or  a  push. 

It  was  the  hope  that  the  river's  bank  would  tempt 
him  into  confidence  that  had  suggested  to  Helen  that 
they  might  spend  the  evening  by  the  Dodder.  Albert 
had  welcomed  the  suggestion,  feeling  sure  that  if  there 
was  a  place  in  the  world  that  would  make  the  telling  of 
her  secret  easy  it  was  the  banks  of  the  Dodder;  and 
she  was  certain  she  would  be  able  to  speak  it  in  the 
hollow  under  the  ilex-trees.  But  speech  died  from  her 
lips,  and  the  silence  round  them  seemed  sinister  and 
foreboding.  She  seemed  to  dread  the  river  flowing  over 
its  muddy  bottom,  without  ripple  or  eddy;  and  she  started 
when  Helen  asked  her  of  what  she  was  thinking.  Albert 
answered:  of  you,  dear;  and  how  pleasant  it  is  to  be 
sitting  with  you.  On  these  words  the  silence  fell  again, 
and  Albert  tried  to  speak,  but  her  tongue  was  too 
thick  in  her  mouth;  she  felt  like  choking,  and  the 
silence  was  not  broken  for  some  seconds,  each  seeming 
a  minute.  At  last  a  lad's  voice  was  heard:  I'll  see 
if  you  have  any  lace  on  your  drawers;  and  the  lass 
answered:  you  sha'n't.  There's  a  pair  that's  enjoy- 
ing themselves,  Helen  said,   and  she  looked  upon  the 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      305 

remark  as  fortunate,  and  hoped  it  would  give  Albert 
the  courage  to  pursue  his  courtship. 

Albert,  too,  looked  upon  the  remark  as  fortunate,  and  she 
tried  to  ask  if  there  was  lace  on  all  women's  drawers;  and 
meditated  a  reply  that  would  lead  her  into  a  confession  of 
her  sex.  But  the  words:  it's  so  long  since  I've  worn  any, 
died  on  her  lips;  and  instead  of  speaking  these  words  she 
spoke  of  the  Dodder,  saying:  What  a  pity  it  isn't  nearer 
Morrison's.  Where  would  you  have  it?  Helen  replied — 
flowing  down  Sackville  Street  into  the  Liffey?  We  should 
be  lying  there  as  thick  as  herrings,  without  room  to  move, 
or  we  should  be  unable  to  speak  to  each  other  without 
being  overheard.  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  Albert  an- 
swered, and  she  was  so  frightened  that  she  added:  but 
we  have  to  be  back  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  it  takes  an  hour 
to  get  there.  We  can  go  back  now  if  you  like,  Helen 
rapped  out.  Albert  apologised,  and  hoping  that  some- 
thing would  happen  to  help  her  out  of  her  difficulty, 
she  began  to  represent  Morrison's  Hotel  as  being  on  the 
whole  advantageous  to  servants.  But  Helen  did  not 
respond.  She  seems  to  be  getting  angry  and  angrier, 
Albert  said  to  herself,  and  she  asked,  almost  in  despair, 
if  the  Dodder  was  pretty  all  the  way  down  to  the  sea. 
Helen,  remembering  a  walk  she  had  been  with  Joe, 
answered:  there  are  woods  as  far  as  Dartry — the  Dartry 
Dye  works,  don't  you  know  them?  But  I  don't  think 
there  are  any  very  pretty  spots.  You  know  Ring's  End, 
don't  you?  Albert  said  he  had  been  there  once;  and 
Helen  spoke  of  a  large  three-masted  vessel  that  she  had 
seen  some  Sundays  ago  by  the  quays.  You  were  there 
with  Joe  Mackins,  weren't  you?  Well,  what  if  I  was? 
Only  this,  Albert  answered,  that  I  don't  think  it  is 
usual  for  a  girl  to  keep  company  with  two  chaps,  and  I 

thought Now,  what  did  you  think?  she  said.    That 

you  didn't  care  for  me  well  enough For  what?  she 

asked.     You    know    we've    been    going    out    for    three 


306      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

months,  and  it  doesn't  seem  natural  to  keep  talking 
always,  never  wanting  to  put  your  arm  around  a  girl's 
waist.  I  suppose  Joe  isn't  like  me  then?  Albert  asked; 
and  she  laughed,  a  scornful  little  laugh.  But,  Albert 
went  on,  isn't  the  time  for  kissing  when  one  is  wedded? 
This  is  the  first  time  you've  said  anything  about  marriage, 
Helen  rapped  out.  But  I  thought  there  had  always  been 
an  understanding  between  us,  said  Albert.  It  is  only  now 
that  I'm  able  to  tell  you  what  I  have  to  offer  you.  The 
words  were  well  chosen,  and  the  girl's  anger  at  Albert's 
neglect  was  lost  sight  of.  Tell  me  about  it,  she  said, 
her  eyes  and  voice  revealing  her  cupidity  to  Albert, 
who  continued  all  the  same  to  unfold  her  plans,  losing 
herself  in  details  that  bore  Helen,  whose  thoughts 
returned  to  the  dilemma  she  was  in — to  refuse  Albert's 
offer  or  to  break  with  Joe;  and  that  she  should  be 
obliged  to  do  either  one  or  the  other  was  a  disappoint- 
ment to  her.  All  you  say  about  the  shop  is  right  enough, 
but  it  isn't  a  very  great  compliment  to  a  girl.  What, 
to  ask  her  to  marry?  Albert  interjected.  Well,  no, 
not  if  you  haven't  kissed  her  first.  Don't  speak  so  loud, 
Albert  whispered;  I'm  sure  that  couple  heard  what  you 
said,  for  they  went  away  laughing.  I  don't  care  whether 
they  laugned  or  cried,  Helen  answered.  You  don't  want 
to  kiss  me,  do  you?  and  I  don't  want  to  marry  a  man  who 
isn't  in  love  with  me.  But  I  do  want  to  kiss  you,  and 
Albert  bent  down  and  kissed  Helen  on  both  cheeks. 
Now  you  can't  say  I  haven't  kissed  you,  can  you?  You 
don't  call  that  kissing,  do  you?  she  asked.  But  how  do 
you  wish  me  to  kiss  you,  Helen?  Well,  you  are  an 
innocent,  she  said,  and  she  kissed  Albert  vindictively. 
Helen,  leave  go  of  me;  I'm  not  used  to  such  kisses. 
Because  you're  not  in  love,  Helen  replied.  In  love? 
Albert  repeated.  I  loved  my  old  nurse  very  much,  but  I 
never  wished  to  kiss  her  like  that.  At  this  Helen  ex- 
ploded with  laughter.     So  you  put  me  in  the  same  class 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      307 

as  your  old  nurse!  Well,  after  that!  Come,  she  said, 
taking  pity  upon  him  for  a  moment,  are  you  or  are  you 
not  in  love  with  me?  I  love  you  deeply,  Helen,  Albert 
said.     Love?  she  repeated:  the  men  who  have  walked 

out  with  me  were  in  love  with  me In  love,  Albert 

repeated  after  her.  I'm  sure  I  love  you.  I  like  men  to 
be  in  love  with  me,  she  answered.  But  that's  like  an 
animal,  Helen.  Whatever  put  all  that  muck  in  your 
head?  I'm  going  home,  she  replied,  and  rose  to  her  feet 
and  started  out  on  the  path  leading  across  the  darkening 
fields.  You're  not  angry  with  me,  Helen?  Angry?  No, 
I'm  not  angry  with  you;  you're  a  fool  of  a  man,  that's 
all.  But  if  you  think  me  a  fool  of  a  man,  why  did  you 
come  out  this  evening  to  sit  under  those  trees?  And 
why  have  we  been  keeping  company  for  the  last  three 
months,  Albert  asked,  going  out  together  every  week? 
You  didn't  always  think  me  a  fool  of  a  man,  did  you? 
Yes,  I  did,  she  answered;  and  Albert  asked  her  for  a 
reason  for  choosing  his  company.  Oh,  you  bother  me 
asking  reasons  for  everything,  Helen  said.  But  why  did 
you  make  me  love  you?  Albert  continued.  Well,  if  I 
did,  what  of  it?  and  as  for  walking  out  with  you,  you 
won't  have  to  complain  of  that  any  more.  You  don't 
mean,  Helen,  that  we  are  never  going  to  walk  out  again? 
Yes,  I  do,  she  said  sullenly.  You  mean  that  for  the  future 
you'll  be  walking  out  with  Joe  Mackins,  Albert  lamented. 
That's  my  business,  she  answered.  By  this  time  they 
were  by  the  stile  at  the  end  of  the  field,  and  in  the  next 
field  there  was  a  hedge  to  get  through  and  a  wood,  and 
the  little  path  they  followed  was  full  of  such  vivid  re- 
membrances that  Albert  could  not  believe  that  she  was 
treading  it  with  Helen  for  the  last  time,  and  besought 
her  to  take  back  the  words  that  she  would  never  walk  out 
with  him  again. 


308      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 


CHAPTER  51. 

THE  tram  was  nearly  empty  and  they  sat  at  the  far  end, 
close  together,  Albert  beseeching  her  not  to  cast  her 
off.  If  I've  been  stupid  to-day,  Albert  pleaded,  it's  because 
I'm  tired  of  the  work  in  the  hotel;  I  shall  be  different 
when  we  get  to  Lisdoonvarna :  we  both  want  a  change  of 
air;  there's  nothing  like  the  salt  water  and  the  cliffs  of 
Clare  to  put  new  spirits  into  a  man.  You  will  be  different 
and  I'll  be  different;  everything  will  be  different.  Don't 
say  no,  Helen;  don't  say  no.  I've  looked  forward  to  this 
week  in  Lisdoonvarna.  But  Helen  could  not  hold  out 
hopes  that  she  would  go  to  Lisdoonvarna,  and  Albert  urged 
the  expense  of  the  lodgings;  he  had  already  engaged.  We 
shall  have  to  pay  for  the  lodgings;  and  there's  the  new 
suit  of  clothes  that  has  just  come  back  from  the  tailor's; 
I've  looked  forward  to  wearing  it,  walking  with  you  in 
the  strand,  the  waves  crashing  up  into  cliffs,  with  green 
fields  among  them,  I've  been  told!  We  shall  see  the 
ships  passing  and  wonder  whither  they  are  going.  I've 
bought  three  neckties  and  some  new  shirts,  and  what  good 
will  these  be  to  me  if  you'll  not  come  to  Lisdoonvarna 
with  me?  The  lodgings  will  have  to  be  paid  for,  a  great 
deal  of  money,  for  I  said  in  my  letter  we  shall  want  two 
bedrooms.  But  there  need  only  be  one  bedroom,  but 
perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  spoken  like  that.  Oh,  don't 
talk  to  me  about  Lisdoonvarna,  Helen  answered.  I'm 
not  going  to  Lisdoonvarna  with  you.  But  what  is  to 
become  of  the  hat  I've  ordered  for  you?  Albert  asked; 
the  hat  with  the  big  feather  in  it;  and  I've  bought  stock- 
ings and  shoes  for  you.  Tell  me,  what  shall  I  do  with 
these,  and  with  the  gloves?  Oh,  the  waste  of  money  and 
the  heart-breaking !  What  shall  I  do  with  the  hat?  Albert 
repeated.     Helen  didn't  answer  at  once.     Presently  she 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY       309 

said:  you  can  leave  the  hat  with  me.  And  the  stockings? 
Albert  asked.  Yes,  you  can  leave  the  stockings.  And 
the  shoes?  Yes,  you  can  leave  the  shoes  too.  Yet  you 
won't  go  to  Lisdoonvarna  with  me?  No,  she  said,  I'll 
not  go  to  Lisdoonvarna  with  you.  But  you'll  take  the 
presents?  It  was  to  please  you  I  said  I  would  take 
them,  because  I  thought  it  would  be  some  satisfaction 
to  you  to  know  that  they  wouldn't  be  wasted.  Not 
wasted?  Albert  repeated.  You'll  wear  them  when  you  go 
out  with  Joe  Mackins.  Oh,  well,  keep  your  presents. 
And  then  the  dispute  took  a  different  turn,  and  was  con- 
tinued till  they  stepped  out  of  the  tram  at  the  top  of 
Dawson  Street.  Albert  continued  to  plead  all  the  way 
down  Dawson  Street,  and  when  they  were  within  twenty 
yards  of  the  hotel,  and  she  saw  Helen  passing  away  from 
her  for  ever  into  the  arms  of  Joe  Mackins,  she  begged  her 
not  to  leave  her.  We  cannot  part  like  this,  she  cried;  let 
us  walk  up  and  down  the  street  from  Nassau  Street  to 
Clare  Street,  so  that  we  may  talk  things  over  and  do 
nothing  foolish.  You  see,  Albert  began,  I  had  set  my 
heart  on  driving  on  an  outside  car  to  the  Broadstone  with 
you,  and  catching  a  train,  and  the  train  going  into  lovely 
country,  arriving  at  a  place  we  had  never  seen,  with  cliffs, 
and  the  sunset  behind  the  cliffs.  You've  told  all  that 
before,  Helen  said,  and,  she  rapped  out,  I'm  not  going  to 
Lisdoonvarna  with  you.  And  if  that  is  all  you  had  to  say 
to  me  we  might  have  gone  into  the  hotel.  But  there's 
much  more,  Helen.  I  haven't  told  you  about  the  shop 
yet.  Yes,  you  have  told  me  all  there  is  to  tell  about  the 
shop;  you've  been  talking  about  that  shop  for  the  last 
three  months.  But,  Helen,  it  was  only  yesterday  that  I 
got  a  letter  saying  that  they  had  had  another  offer  for  the 
shop  and  that  they  could  give  me  only  till  Monday  morn- 
ing to  close  with  them;  if  the  lease  isn't  signed  by  them 
we've  lost  the  shop.  But  do  you  think,  Helen  asked, 
that  the  shop  will  be  a  success?    Many  shops  promise 


310      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

well  in  the  beginning  and  fade  away  till  they  don't  get  a 
customer  a  day. 

Albert  welcomed  this  show  of  interest  in  her  project 
and,  hoping  to  turn  Helen's  thoughts  from  Joe  Mackins, 
she  began  an  appraisement  of  the  shop's  situation  and 
the  custom  it  commanded  in  the  neighbourhood  and  the 
possibility  of  developing  that  custom.  We  shall  be  able 
to  make  a  great  success  of  that  shop,  and  people  will  be 
coming  to  see  us,  and  they  will  be  having  tea  with  us  in 
the  parlour,  and  they'll  envy  us,  saying  that  never  have 
two  people  had  such  luck  as  we  have  had.     And  our 

wedding  will  be Will  be  what?  Helen  asked.     Will 

be  a  great  wonder.  A  great  wonder,  indeed,  she  replied, 
but  I'm  not  going  to  wed  you,  Albert  Nobbs,  and  now  I 
see  it's  beginning  to  rain.  I  can't  remain  out  any  longer. 
You're  thinking  of  your  hat;  I'll  buy  another.  We  may 
as  well  say  good-bye,  she  answered,  and  Albert  saw  her 
going  towards  the  doorway.  She'll  see  Joe  Mackins 
before  she  goes  to  her  bed,  and  lie  dreaming  of  him;  and 
I  shall  lie  awake  in  my  bed,  my  thoughts  flying  to  and 
fro  the  livelong  night,  zigzagging  up  and  down  like  bats. 

And  then,  remembering  that  if  she  went  into  the  hotel 
she  might  meet  Helen  and  Joe  Mackins,  she  rushed  on 
with  a  hope  in  her  mind  that  after  a  long  walk  round 
Dublin  she  might  sleep. 


CHAPTER  52. 

AT  the  corner  of  Clare  Street,  she  met  two  women 
strolling  after  a  fare — ten  shillings  or  a  sovereign, 
which?  she  asked  herself — and,  terrified  by  the  shipwreck 
of  all  her  hopes,  she  wished  that  she  were  one  of  them. 
They  at  least  are  women,  whereas  I  am  but  a  per- 
hapser In  the  midst  of  her  grief  a  wish  to  speak  to 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      311 

them  took  hold  of  her.  But  if  I  speak  to  them  they'll 
expect  me  to 

All  the  same  her  steps  quickened,  and  as  she  passed 
the  two  street- walkers  she  looked  round,  and  one  woman, 
wishing  to  attract  her  attention,  said:  it  was  almost  a 
love  dream. 

Almost  a  love  dream?  Albert  repeated.  What  are 
you  two  women  talking  about?  and  the  woman  next  to 
Albert  said:  my  friend  here  was  telling  me  of  a  dream 
she  had  last  night.  A  dream,  and  what  was  her  dream 
about?  Albert  asked.  Annie  was  telling  me  that  she 
was  better  than  a  love  dream,  now  do  you  think  she  is, 
sir?  I'll  ask  Annie  herself,  Albert  replied,  and  Annie 
answered  him:  a  shade.  Only  a  shade,  Albert  returned, 
and  they  crossed  the  street  together. 

At  the  corner  of  Merrion  Square  a  gallant  presented 
himself;  he  attached  himself  to  Annie's  companion,  and 
Albert  and  Annie  were  left  together. 

You  haven't  told  me  your  name,  Albert  said,  in  a 
sudden  inspiration.  My  name  is  Kitty  MacCan,  the 
girl  replied.  It's  odd  we've  never  met  before,  Albert 
replied,  hardly  knowing  what  she  was  saying.  We're  not 
often  this  way,  was  the  answer.  And  where  do  you  walk 
usually — of  an  evening,  Albert  asked.  In  Grafton  Street 
or  down  by  College  Green;  sometimes  we  cross  the  river. 
To  walk  in  Sackville  Street,  Albert  interjected;  and 
he  tried  to  lead  the  woman  into  a  story  of  her  life.  But 
you're  not  one  of  them,  she  said,  that  think  that  we 
should  wash  clothes  in  a  nunnery  for  nothing?  Oh  no, 
Albert  answered.  I'm  a  waiter  in  Morrison's  Hotel,  and, 
much  relieved,  the  woman  began  to  talk  more  freely. 
As  soon  as  the  name  of  Morrison's  Hotel  passed  Albert's 
lips  she  began  to  regret  having  spoken  about  herself. 
But  what  did  it  matter  now?  and  the  woman  didn't  seem 
to  have  taken  heed  of  the  name  of  the  hotel.  Is  the 
money  good  in  your  hotel?  she  asked;   I've  heard  that 


312      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

you  get  as  much  as  half-a-crown  for  carrying  up  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  Kitty's  story  dribbled  out  in  remarks,  a  simple 
story  that  Albert  tried  to  listen  to,  but  her  attention 
wandered,  and  Kitty,  who  was  not  unintelligent,  began 
to  guess  Albert  to  be  in  the  middle  of  some  great  grief. 
It  doesn't  matter  about  me,  Albert  answered  her,  and 
Annie  being  a  kind  girl  said  to  herself:  if  I  can  get  him 
to  come  home  with  me  I'll  help  him  out  of  his  sorrow,  if 
only  for  a  little  while.  So  she  continued  to  try  to  interest 
him  in  herself  till  they  came  to  Fitzwilliam  Place;  and  it 
was  not  till  then  that  Annie  remembered  she  had  only 
three  and  sixpence  left  out  of  the  last  money  she  had 
received,  and  that  her  rent  would  be  due  on  the  morrow. 
She  daren't  return  home  without  a  gentleman,  her  land- 
lady would  be  at  her,  and  the  best  time  of  the  night  was 
going  by  talking  to  a  man  who  seemed  like  one  who  would 
bid  her  a  curt  good-night  at  the  door  of  his  hotel.  Where 
did  he  say  his  hotel  was?  she  asked  herself;  and  then, 
aloud,  she  said:  you're  a  waiter,  aren't  you?  I've  for- 
gotten which  hotel  you  said.  Albert  didn't  answer,  and, 
troubled  by  her  companion's  silence,  she  continued:  I'm 
afraid  I'm  taking  you  out  of  your  way.  No,  you  aren't; 
all  ways  are  the  same  to  me.  Well,  they  aren't  to  me,  she 
replied.  I  must  get  some  money  to-night.  I'll  give  you 
some  money,  Albert  said.  But  won't  you  come  home  with 
me?  the  girl  asked.  Albert  hesitated,  tempted  by  her 
company.  But  if  they  were  to  go  home  together  her 
sex  would  be  discovered.  But  what  did  it  matter  if  it 
were  discovered,  Albert  asked  herself,  and  the  tempta- 
tion came  again  to  go  home  with  this  woman,  to  lie  in 
her  arms  and  tell  the  story  that  had  been  locked  up  so 
many  years.  They  could  both  have  a  good  cry  together, 
and  what  matter  would  it  be  to  the  woman  as  long  as  she 
got  the  money  she  desired.  She  didn't  want  a  man;  it 
was  money  she  was  after,  money  that  meant  bread  and 
board  to  her.     She  seems  a  kind,  nice  girl,  Albert  said, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      313 

and  he  was  about  to  risk  the  adventure  when  a  man  came 
by  whom  Kitty  knew.  Excuse  me,  she  said,  and  Albert 
saw  them  walk  away  together.  I'm  sorry,  said  the  woman, 
returning,  but  I've  just  met  an  old  friend;  another  evening, 
perhaps.  Albert  would  have  liked  to  put  her  hand  in  her 
pocket  and  pay  the  woman  with  some  silver  for  her  com- 
pany, but  she  was  already  half-way  back  to  her  friend,  who 
stood  waiting  for  her  by  the  lamp-post.  The  street- 
walkers have  friends,  and  when  they  meet  them  their 
troubles  are  over  for  the  night;  but  my  chances  have 
gone  by  me;  and,  checking  herself  in  the  midst  of  the 
irrelevant  question,  whether  it  were  better  to  be  casual, 
as  they  were,  or  to  have  a  husband  that  you  could  not 
get  rid  of,  she  plunged  into  her  own  grief,  and  walked 
sobbing  through  street  after  street,  taking  no  heed  of 
where  she  was  going. 


CHAPTER  53. 

YOU  can  see  the  poor  creature,  Alec,  walking  through 
the  city  back  and  forth,  crossing  the  bridges,  any 
whither,  no  whither,  distracted  by  grief,  till  at  last 
fatigue  brought  her  to  the  door  of  Morrison's  hotel. 

Why,  lord,  Mr  Nobbs,  whatever  has  kept  you  out 
until  this  hour?  the  hall  porter  muttered.  I'm  sorry,  she 
answered,  and  while  stumbling  up  the  stairs  she  remem- 
bered that  even  a  guest  was  not  received  very  amiably  by 
the  hall  porter  after  two;  and  for  a  servant  to  come  in  at 
that  time!  Her  thoughts  broke  off  and  she  lay  too  tired 
to  think  any  more  of  the  hall  porter,  of  herself,  of  any- 
thing; and  when  the  time  came  for  her  to  go  to  her  work 
she  rose  indifferently. 

Her  work  saved  her  from  thinking,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  when  the  luncheon-tables  had 
been  cleared,  that  the  desire  to  see  and  to  speak  to  Helen 


314      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

could  not  be  put  aside;  but  Helen's  face  wore  an  ugly, 
forbidding  look,  and  Albert  returned  to  the  second  floor 
without  speaking  to  her.  It  was  not  long  after  that 
34  rang  his  bell,  and  Albert  hoped  to  get  an  order  that 
would  send  her  to  the  kitchen.  Are  you  going  to  pass 
me  by  without  speaking  again,  Helen?  We  talked 
enough  last  night,  Helen  retorted;  there's  nothing  more 
to  say,  and  Joe,  in  such  disorder  of  dress  as  behooves  a 
scullion,  giggled  as  he  went  past,  carrying  a  huge  pile  of 
plates.  I  loved  my  old  nurse,  but  I  never  thought  of 
kissing  her  like  that,  he  said,  turning  on  his  heel  and  so 
suddenly  that  some  of  the  plates  fell  with  a  great  clatter. 
The  ill  luck  that  had  befallen  him  seemed  well  deserved, 
and  Albert  returned  upstairs  and  sat  in  the  passages 
waiting  for  the  sitting-rooms  to  ring  their  bells;  and  the 
housemaids,  as  they  came  about  the  head  of  the  stairs 
with  the  dusters,  wondered  how  it  was  that  they  could 
not  get  any  intelligible  conversation  out  of  the  love- 
stricken  waiter.  Her  lovelorn  appearance  checked  their 
mirth,  pity  entered  their  hearts,  and  they  kept  back  the 
words;  I  loved  my  old  nurse,  etc. 

After  all,  he  loves  the  girl,  one  said  to  the  other,  and  a 
moment  after,  they  were  joined  by  another  housemaid,  who, 
after  listening  for  a  while,  went  away,  saying;  there's  no 
torment  like  the  love  torment;  and  the  three  housemaids, 
Mary,  Alice  and  Dorothy,  offered  Albert  their  sympathy, 
trying  to  lead  her  into  little  talks  with  a  view  to  with- 
drawing her  from  the  contemplation  of  her  own  grief,  for 
women  are  always  moved  by  a  love  story.  Before  long 
their  temper  turned  against  Helen,  and  they  often  went 
by  asking  themselves  why  she  should  have  kept  company 
with  Albert  all  these  months  if  she  didn't  mean  to 
wed  him. 

No  wonder  the  poor  man  was  disappointed.  He  is 
destroyed  with  his  grief,  said  one;  look  at  him,  without 
any    more   colour   in   his   face   than   is   in    my    duster. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      315 

Another  said:  he  doesn't  swallow  a  bit  of  food.  And  the 
third  said :  I  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  for  him  that  was 
left  over,  but  he  put  it  away.  Isn't  love  awful?  But 
what  can  he  see  in  her?  another  asked,  a  stumpy,  swarthy 
woman,  a  little  black  thorn  bush  and  as  full  of  prickles; 
and  three  women  fell  to  thinking  that  Albert  would 
have  done  better  to  have  chosen  one  of  them. 

The  shop  entered  into  the  discussion  soon  after,  and 
everybody  was  of  opinion  that  Helen  would  live  to  regret 
her  cruelty.  The  word  cruelty  did  not  satisfy;  treachery 
was  mentioned,  and  somebody  said  that  Helen's  face  was 
full  of  treachery.  Albert  will  never  recover  himself  as  long 
as  she's  here,  another  remarked.  He'll  just  waste  away 
unless  Miss  Right  comes  along.  He  put  all  his  eggs  into 
one  basket,  a  man  said;  you  see  he'd  never  been  known  to 
walk  out  with  a  girl  before.  And  what  age  do  you  think 
he  is?  I  put  him  down  at  forty -five,  and  when  love  takes  a 
man  at  that  age  it  takes  him  badly.  This  is  no  calf  love, 
the  man  said,  looking  into  the  women's  faces,  and  you'll 
never  be  able  to  mend  matters  any  of  you;  and  they  all 
declared  they  didn't  wish  to,  and  dispersed  in  different 
directions,  flicking  their  dusters  and  asking  themselves  if 
Albert  would  ever  look  at  another  woman. 

It  was  felt  generally  that  he  would  not  have  the 
courage  to  try  again,  which  was  indeed  the  case,  for  when 
it  was  suggested  to  Albert  that  a  faint  heart  never  wins 
a  fair  lady  she  answered  that  her  spirit  was  broken.  I 
shall  boil  my  pot  and  carry  my  can,  but  the  spring  is 
broken  in  me,  and  it  was  these  words  that  were  re- 
membered and  pondered,  whereas  the  joke — I  loved 
my  old  nurse,  etc. — raised  no  laugh;  and  the  sympathy 
that  Albert  felt  to  be  gathering  about  her  cheered  her 
on  her  way.  She  was  no  longer  friendless;  almost  any 
one  of  the  women  in  the  hotel  would  have  married 
Albert  out  of  pity  for  her.  But  there  was  no  heart  in 
Albert  for  another  adventure;  nor  any  thought  in  her  for 


316      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

anything  but  her  work.  She  rose  every  morning  and 
went  forth  to  her  work,  and  was  sorry  when  her  work  was 
done,  for  she  had  come  to  dread  every  interval,  knowing 
that  as  soon  as  she  sat  down  to  rest  the  old  torment  would 
begin  again.  Once  more  she  would  begin  to  think  that 
she  had  nothing  more  to  look  forward  to:  that  her  life 
would  be  but  a  round  of  work;  a  sort  of  treadmill.  She 
would  never  see  Lisdoonvarna,  and  the  shop  with  two 
counters,  one  at  which  tabacco,  cigarettes  and  matches 
were  sold,  and  at  the  other  counter  all  kinds  of  sweet- 
stuffs.  Like  Lisdoonvarna,  it  had  passed  away,  it  had  only 
existed  in  her  mind — a  thought,  a  dream.  Yet  it  had 
possessed  her  completely;  and  the  parlour  behind  the 
shop  that  she  had  furnished  and  refurnished,  hanging  a 
round  mirror  above  the  mantelpiece,  papering  the  walls 
with  a  pretty  colourful  paper  that  she  had  seen  in 
Wicklow  Street  and  had  asked  the  man  to  put  aside  for 
her.  She  had  hung  curtains  about  the  windows  in  her 
imagination,  and  had  set  two  arm-chairs  on  either  side 
of  the  hearth,  one  in  green  and  one  in  red  velvet,  for  her- 
self and  Helen.  The  parlour  too  had  passed  away  like 
Lisdoonvarna,  like  the  shop,  a  thought,  a  dream,  no  more. 
There  had  never  been  anything  in  her  life  but  a  few 
dreams,  and  henceforth  there  would  be  not  even  dreams. 
It  was  strange  that  some  people  came  into  the  world 
lucky,  and  others,  for  no  reason,  unlucky;  she  had  been 
unlucky  from  her  birth;  she  was  a  bastard;  her  parents 
were  grand  people  whose  name  she  did  not  know,  who 
paid  her  nurse  a  hundred  a  year  to  keep  her,  and  who 
died  without  making  any  provision  for  her.  She  and  her 
old  nurse  had  to  go  and  live  in  Temple  Lane,  and  to  go 
out  charing  every  morning;  Mr  Congreve  had  a  French 
mistress,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Bessie  Lawrence  she 
might  have  thrown  herself  in  the  Thames:  she  was  very 
near  to  it  that  night,  and  if  she  had  drowned  herself  all 
this  worry  and  torment  would  have  been  over.     She  was 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      317 

more  resolute  in  those  days  than  she  was  now,  and  would 
have  faced  the  river,  but  she  shrank  from  this  Dublin 
river,  perhaps  because  it  was  not  her  own  river.  If  one 
wishes  to  drown  oneself  it  had  better  be  in  one's  own 
country.  It  is  a  mistake,  she  said,  to  settle  in  a  foreign 
country.  But  why  is  it  a  mistake?  for  a  perhapser  like 
herself,  all  countries  were  the  same;  go  or  stay,  it  didn't 
matter.  Yes,  it  did;  she  stayed  in  Dublin  in  the  hope 
that  Hubert  Page  would  return  to  the  hotel.  Only  to 
him  could  she  confide  the  misfortune  that  had  befallen 
her,  and  she'd  like  to  tell  somebody.  The  three  might 
set  up  together.  A  happy  family  they  might  make.  Two 
women  in  men's  clothes  and  one  in  petticoats.  If  Hubert 
were  willing.  But  Hubert's  wife  might  not  be  willing. 
If  Hubert's  wife  were  dead!  Ah!  she  had  never  been 
so  long  away  before.  But  she  would  return,  and  Albert 
pondered  that  her  own  prospect  of  being  allowed  to  go 
and  live  with  somebody  depended  upon  the  money  she 
could  show. 

And  from  that  moment  her  life  expended  itself  in 
watching  for  tips,  collecting  half-crowns,  crowns  and  half- 
sovereigns.  She  felt  that  she  must  at  least  replace  the 
money  that  she  had  spent  giving  presents  to  Helen — and 
as  the  months  went  by  and  the  years  she  remembered, 
with  increasing  bitterness,  that  she  had  wasted  nearly 
twenty  pounds — on  Helen — a  cruel,  heartless  girl  that  had 
come  into  her  life  for  three  months  and  had  left  her  for 
Joe  Mackins,  and  Albert  thanked  God  that  they  were  now 
away  in  London. 

She  took  to  counting  her  money  in  her  room  at  night. 

The  half-crowns  were  folded  up  in  brown-paper  packets, 
the  half-sovereigns  in  blue,  the  rare  sovereigns  were  in 
pink  paper  and  all  these  little  packets  were  hidden  away 
in  different  corners;  some  were  put  in  the  chimney,  some 
under  the  carpet.  She  often  thought  that  these  hoards 
would  be  safer  in  the  Post  Office  Bank,  but  she  who  has 


318      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

nothing  else  likes  to  have  her  money  with  her,  and  a  sense 
of  almost  happiness  awoke  in  her  when  she  discovered 
herself  to  be  again  as  rich  as  she  was  before  she  met 
Helen. 

It  was  found  necessary  to  remove  a  plank  from  the  floor; 
one  behind  the  bed  was  chosen,  and  henceforth  Albert 
slept  securely  over  her  hoard,  or  lay  awake  thinking  of 
Hubert,  who  might  return,  and  to  whom  she  might  confide 
the  story  of  her  misadventure;  but  as  Hubert  did  not 
return  her  wish  to  see  him  faded,  and  she  began  to  think 
that  it  might  be  just  as  well  if  he  stayed  away,  for,  who 
knows?  a  wandering  fellow  like  him  might  easily  run  out 
of  his  money  and  return  to  Morrison's  Hotel  to  borrow 
from  her,  and  she  wasn't  going  to  give  her  money  to  be 
spent  for  the  benefit  of  another  woman.  The  other 
woman  was  Hubert's  wife.  If  Hubert  came  back  he  might 
threaten  to  publish  her  secret  if  she  didn't  give  him  money 
to  keep  it.  An  ugly  thought,  of  which  she  was  ashamed 
and  which  she  tried  to  keep  out  of  her  mind.  But  as 
time  went  on  a  dread  of  Hubert  took  possession  of  her. 
After  all,  Hubert  knew  her  secret,  and  somehow  it  didn't 
occur  to  her  that  in  betraying  her  secret  Hubert  would  be 
betraying  his  own.  Albert  didn't  think  as  clearly  as  she 
used  to;  and  one  day  she  answered  Mrs  Baker  in  a  manner 
that  Mrs  Baker  did  not  like.  Whilst  speaking  to  Albert 
the  thought  crossed  Mrs  Baker's  mind  that  it  was  a  long 
while  since  they  had  seen  the  painter.  I  cannot  think, 
she  said,  what  has  become  of  Hubert  Page;  we've  not  had 
news  of  him  for  a  long  time;  have  you  heard  from  him, 
Albert?  Why  should  you  think,  ma'am,  that  I  hear  from 
him?  I  only  asked,  Mrs  Baker  replied,  and  she  heard 
Albert  grumbling  something  about  a  wandering  fellow, 
and  the  tone  in  which  the  words  were  spoken  was  dis- 
respectful, and  Mrs  Baker  began  to  consider  Albert;  and 
though  a  better  servant  now  than  he  had  ever  been  in 
some  respects,  he  had  developed  a  fault  which  she  didn't 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      319 

like,  a  way  of  hanging  round  the  visitor  as  he  was 
preparing  to  leave  the  hotel  that  almost  amounted  to 
persecution.  Worse  than  that,  a  rumour  had  reached 
her  that  Albert's  service  was  measured  according  to  the 
tip  he  expected  to  receive.  She  didn't  believe  it,  but  if 
it  were  true  she  would  not  hestitate  to  have  him  out  of  the 
hotel  in  spite  of  the  many  years  he  had  spent  with  them. 
Another  thing:  Albert  was  liked,  but  not  by  everybody. 
The  little  red-headed  boy  on  the  second  floor  told  me, 
Mrs  Baker  said  (her  thoughts  returning  to  last  Sunday, 
when  she  had  taken  the  child  out  to  Bray)  that  he  was 
afraid  of  Albert,  and  he  confided  to  me  that  Albert  had 
tried  to  pick  him  up  and  kiss  him.  Why  can't  he  leave 
the  child  alone?     Can't  he  see  the  child  doesn't  like  him? 

But  the  Bakers  were  kind-hearted  proprietors,  and  could 
not  keep  sentiment  out  of  their  business,  and  Albert 
remained  at  Morrison's  Hotel  till  she  died. 

An  easy  death  I  hope  it  was,  your  honour,  for  if  any 
poor  creature  deserved  an  easy  one  it  was  Albert  herself. 
You  think  so,  Alec,  meaning  that  the  disappointed  man 
suffers  less  at  parting  with  this  world  than  the  happy  one? 
Maybe  you're  right.  That  is  as  it  may  be,  your  honour, 
he  answered,  and  I  told  him  that  Albert  awoke  one 
morning  hardly  able  to  breathe,  and  returned  to  bed  and 
lay  there  almost  speechless  till  the  maidservant  came  to 
make  the  bed.  She  ran  off  again  to  fetch  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  after  sipping  it  Albert  said  that  she  felt  better. 
But  she  never  roused  completely,  and  the  maidservant 
who  came  up  in  the  evening  with  a  bowl  of  soup  did 
not  press  her  to  try  to  eat  it,  for  it  was  plain  that  Albert 
could  not  eat  or  drink,  and  it  was  almost  plain  that  she 
was  dying,  but  the  maidservant  did  not  like  to  alarm 
the  hotel  and  contented  herself  with  saying:  he'd 
better  see  the  doctor  to-morrow.  She  was  up  betimes 
in  the  morning  and  on  going  to  Albert's  room  she 
found  the  waiter  asleep,  breathing  heavily.       An  hour 


320      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

later  Albert  was  dead,  and  everybody  was  asking  how 
a  man  who  was  in  good  health  on  Tuesday  could  be  a 
corpse  on  Thursday  morning,  as  if  such  a  thing  had  never 
happened  before.  However,  often  it  had  happened,  it 
did  not  seem  natural,  and  it  was  whispered  that  Albert 
might  have  made  away  with  himself.  Some  spoke  of 
apoplexy,  but  apoplexy  in  a  long,  thin  man  is  not  usual; 
and  when  the  doctor  came  down  his  report  that  Albert 
was  a  woman  put  all  thought  of  the  cause  of  death  out 
of  everybody's  mind.  Never  before  or  since  was  Morri- 
son's Hotel  agog  as  it  was  that  morning,  everybody 
asking  the  other  why  Albert  had  chosen  to  pass  herself 
off  as  a  man,  and  how  she  had  succeeded  in  doing  this 
year  after  year  without  any  one  of  them  suspecting  her. 
She  would  be  getting  better  wages  as  a  man  than  as  a 
woman,  somebody  said,  but  nobody  cared  to  discuss 
the  wages  question;  all  knew  that  a  man  is  better  paid 
than  a  woman. 

But  what  Albert  would  have  done  with  Helen  if  Helen 
hadn't  gone  off  with  Joe  Mackins  stirred  everybody's 
imagination.  What  would  have  happened  on  the  wedding 
night?  Nothing,  of  course;  but  how  would  she  have  let 
on?  The  men  giggled  over  their  glasses,  and  the  women 
pondered  over  their  cups  of  tea;  the  men  asked  the 
women  and  the  women  asked  the  men,  and  the  interest 
in  the  subject  had  not  quite  died  down  when  Hubert 
Page  returned  to  Morrison's  Hotel,  in  the  spring  of  the 
year,  with  her  paint  pots  and  brushes.  How  is  Albert 
Nobbs?  was  one  of  her  first  inquiries,  and  it  fired  the 
train.  Albert  Nobbs!  Don't  you  know?  How  should 
I  know?  Hubert  Page  replied.  I've  only  just  come  back 
to  Dublin.  What  is  there  to  know?  Don't  you  ever 
read  the  papers?  Read  the  papers?  Hubert  repeated 
Then  you  haven't  heard  that  Albert  Nobbs  is  dead? 
No,  I  hadn't  heard  of  it.  I'm  sorry  for  him,  but  after 
all,  men  die;  there's  nothing  wonderful  in  that,  is  there? 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      321 

No;  but  if  you  had  read  the  papers  you'd  have  learnt 
that  Albert  Nobbs  wasn't  a  man  at  all.  Albert  Nobbs 
was  a  woman.  Albert  Nobbs  a  woman !  Hubert  replied, 
putting  as  much  surprise  as  she  could  into  her  voice. 
So  you  never  heard?  And  the  story  began  to  pour  out 
from  different  sides,  everybody  striving  to  communicate 
it  to  her,  until  at  last  she  said:  if  you  all  speak  together, 
I  shall  never  understand  it.  Albert  Nobbs  a  woman! 
A  woman  as  much  as  you're  a  man,  was  the  answer, 
and  the  story  of  her  courtship  with  Helen,  and  Helen's 
preference  for  Joe  Mackins  and  Albert's  grief  at  Helen's 
treatment  of  him  trickled  into  a  long  relation.  The 
biggest  deception  in  the  whole  world,  a  scullion  cried 
from  his  saucepans.  Whatever  would  she  have  done 
with  Helen  if  they  had  married?  But  the  question 
had  been  asked  so  often  that  it  fell  flat.  So  Helen 
went  away  with  Joe  Mackins?  Hubert  said.  Yes;  and 
they  don't  seem  to  get  on  over  well  together.  Serve  her 
right  for  her  unkindness,  cried  a  kitchen-maid.  But  after 
all,  you  wouldn't  want  her  to  marry  a  woman?  a  scullion 
answered.  Of  course  not;  of  course  not.  The  story  was 
taken  up  by  another  voice,  and  the  hundreds  of  pounds 
that  Albert  had  left  behind  in  many  securities  were 
multiplied;  nearly  a  hundred  in  ready  money  rolled  up 
in  paper,  half-crowns,  half-sovereigns  and  sovereigns  in 
his  bedroom;  his  bedroom — her  bedroom,  I  mean;  but 
we're  so  used  to  thinking  of  her  as  a  him  that  we  find  it 
difficult  to  say  her;  we're  always  catching  each  other 
up.  But  what  I'm  thinking  of,  said  a  waiter,  is  the  waste 
of  all  that  money.  A  great  scoop  it  was  for  the  Govern- 
ment, eight  hundred  pounds.  The  pair  were  to  have 
bought  a  shop  and  lived  together,  Mr  Page,  Annie  Watts 
rapped  out,  and  when  the  discussion  was  carried  from  the 
kitchen  upstairs  to  the  second  floor:  true  for  you,  said 
Dorothy,  now  you  mention  it,  I  remember,  it's  you  that 
should  be  knowing  better  than  anybody  else,  Mr  Page, 


322      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

what  Albert's  sex  was  like.  Didn't  you  sleep  with  her? 
I  fell  asleep  the  moment  my  head  was  on  the  pillow,  Page 
answered,  for  if  you  remember  rightly  I  was  that  tired 
Mrs  Baker  hadn't  the  heart  to  turn  me  out  of  the  hotel. 
I'd  been  working  ten,  twelve,  fourteen  hours  a  day,  and 
when  he  took  me  up  to  his  room  I  just  tore  off  my  clothes 
and  fell  asleep  and  went  away  in  the  morning  before  he 
was  awake.  Isn't  it  wonderful?  A  woman,  Hubert  con- 
tinued, and  a  minx  in  the  bargain,  and  an  artful  minx  if 
ever  there  was  one  in  the  world,  and  there  have  been  a 
good  many.  And  now,  ladies,  I  must  be  about  my  work. 
I  wonder  what  Annie  Watts  was  thinking  of  when  she 
stood  looking  into  my  eyes;  does  she  suspect  me?  Hubert 
asked  herself  as  she  sat  on  her  derrick.  And  what  a  piece 
of  bad  luck  that  I  shouldn't  have  found  him  alive  when  I 
returned  to  Dublin. 

You  see,  Alec,  this  is  how  it  was.  Polly,  that  was 
Hubert's  wife,  died  six  months  before  Albert;  and  Hubert 
had  been  thinking  ever  since  of  going  into  partnership 
with  Albert.  In  fact  Hubert  had  been  thinking  about  a 
shop,  like  Albert,  saying  to  herself  almost  every  day  after 
the  death  of  her  wife:  Albert  and  I  might  set  up  to- 
gether. But  it  was  not  until  she  lay  in  bed  that  she  fell  to 
thinking  the  matter  out,  saying  to  herself:  one  of  us  would 
have  had  to  give  up  our  job  to  attend  to  it.  The  shop  was 
Albert's  idea  more  than  mine,  so  perhaps  she'd  have 
given  up  waiting,  which  would  not  have  suited  me,  for 
I'm  tired  of  going  up  these  ladders.  My  head  isn't 
altogether  as  steady  as  it  used  to  be;  swinging  about 
on  a  derrick  isn't  suited  to  women.  So  perhaps  it's  as 
well  that  things  have  fallen  out  as  they  have.  Hubert 
turned  herself  over,  but  sleep  was  far  from  her,  and  she  lay 
a  long  time  thinking  of  everything  and  of  nothing  in 
particular,  as  we  all  do  in  our  beds,  with  this  thought 
often  uppermost:  I  wonder  what  is  going  to  be  the  end 
of  my  life.     What  new  chance  do  the  years  hold  for  me? 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      323 

And  of  what  would  Hubert  be  thinking,  and  she  a 
married  woman?  Of  what  else  should  she  be  thinking  but 
of  her  husband,  who  might  now  be  a  different  man  from 
the  one  she  left  behind.  Fifteen  years,  she  said,  makes 
a  great  difference  in  all  of  us,  and  perhaps  it  was  the 
words,  fifteen  years,  that  put  the  children  she  had  left 
behind  her  back  into  her  thought.  I  wouldn't  be  saying 
that  she  hadn't  been  thinking  of  them,  off  and  on,  in  the 
years  gone  by,  but  the  thought  of  them  was  never  such  a 
piercing  thought  as  it  was  that  night.  She'd  have  liked 
to  have  jumped  out  of  her  bed  and  run  away  to  them;  and 
perhaps  she  would  have  done  if  she  only  knew  where  they 
were.  But  she  didn't,  so  she  had  to  keep  to  her  bed; 
and  she  lay  for  an  hour  or  more  thinking  of  them  as  little 
children,  and  wondering  what  they  were  like  now.  Lily 
was  five  when  she  left  home.  She's  a  young  woman, 
now.  Agnes  was  only  two.  She  is  now  seventeen,  still 
a  girl,  Hubert  said  to  herself;  but  Lily's  looking  round, 
thinking  of  young  men,  and  the  other  won't  be  delaying 
much  longer,  for  young  women  are  much  more  wide- 
awake than  they  used  to  be  in  the  old  days.  The  rest 
of  my  life  belongs  to  them.  Their  father  could  have 
looked  after  them  till  now;  but  now  they  are  thinking 
of  young  men  he  won't  be  able  to  cope  with  them,  and 
maybe  he's  wanting  me  too.  Bill  is  forty,  and  at  forty 
we  begin  to  think  of  them  as  we  knew  them  long  ago. 
He  must  have  often  thought  of  me,  perhaps  oftener 
than  I  thought  of  him,  and  she  was  surprised  to  find  that 
she  had  forgotten  all  Bill's  ill  usage,  and  remembered 
only  the  good  time  she  had  had  with  him.  The  rest  of 
my  life  belongs  to  him,  she  said,  and  to  the  girls.  But 
how  am  I  to  get  back  to  him?  how,  indeed?  .  .  .  Bill 
may  be  dead;  the  children  too.  But  that  isn't  likely.  I 
must  get  news  of  them  somehow.  The  house  is  there,  and 
lying  in  the  darkness  she  recalled  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 
the  chairs  that  she  had  sat  in,  the  coverlets  on  the  beds, 


324      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

everything.  Bill  isn't  a  wanderer,  she  said;  I'll  find  him 
in  the  same  house  if  he  isn't  dead.  And  the  children? 
Did  they  know  anything  about  her?  Had  Bill  spoken 
ill  to  them  of  her?  She  didn't  think  he  would  do  that. 
But  did  they  want  to  see  her?  Well,  she  could  never 
find  that  out  except  by  going  to  see.  But  how  was  she 
going  to  return  home?  Pack  up  her  things  and  go 
dressed  as  a  man  to  the  house  and,  meeting  Bill  on  the 
threshold,  say:  don't  you  know  me,  Bill?  and  are  you 
glad  to  see  your  mother  back,  children?  No;  that  wouldn't 
do.  She  must  return  home  as  a  woman,  and  none  of 
them  must  know  the  life  she  had  been  living.  But  what 
story  would  she  tell  him?  It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  the 
story  of  fifteen  years,  for  fifteen  years  is  a  long  time,  and 
sooner  or  later  they'd  find  out  she  was  lying,  for  they 
would  keep  asking  her  questions. 

But  sure,  said  Alec,  'tis  an  easy  story  to  tell.  Well, 
Alec,  what  story  should  she  tell  them?  In  these  parts, 
Alec  said,  a  woman  who  left  her  husband  and  returned 
to  him  after  fifteen  years  would  say  she  was  taken  away 
by  the  fairies  whilst  wandering  in  a  wood.  Do  you  think 
she'd  be  believed?  Why  shouldn't  she,  your,  honour? 
A  woman  that  marries  another  woman,  and  lives  happily 
with  her,  isn't  a  natural  woman;  there  must  be  some- 
thing of  the  fairy  in  her.  But  I  could  see  it  all  happening 
as  you  told  it,  the  maidservants  and  the  serving-men 
going  their  own  roads,  and  the  only  fault  I've  to  find  with 
the  story  is  that  you  left  out  some  of  the  best  parts. 
I'd  have  liked  to  know  what  the  husband  said  when  she 
went  back  to  him,  and  they  separated  all  the  years.  If 
he  liked  her  better  than  he  did  before,  or  less.  And 
there's  a  fine  story  in  the  way  the  mother  would  be  vexed 
by  the  two  daughters  and  the  husband,  and  they  at  her 
all  the  time  with  questions,  and  she  hard  set  to  find 
answers  for  them.  But  mayhap  the  best  bit  of  all  is 
when  Albert  began  to  think  that  it  wouldn't  do  to  have 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      325 

Joe  Mackins  hanging  round,  making  their  home  his  own, 
eating  and  drinking  of  the  best,  and  when  there  was  a 
quarrel  he'd  have  a  fine  threat  over  them,  as  good  as  the 
Murrigan  herself  when  she  makes  off  of  a  night  to  the 
fair,  whirling  herself  over  the  people's  heads,  stirring 
them  up  agin  each  other,  making  cakes  of  their  skulls. 
I'm  bet,  fairly  bet,  crowed  down  by  the  Ballinrobe  cock. 
And  now,  your  honour,  you  heard  the  Angelus  ringing, 
and  my  dinner  is  on  the  hob,  but  I'll  be  telling  you  what 
I  think  of  the  story  when  I  come  back;  but  I'm  thinking 
already  'tis  the  finest  that  ever  came  out  of  Ballinrobe, 
I  am  so. 


CHAPTER  54. 

ONE  day  Alec  said,  breaking  a  long  silence:  'tis  proud 
of  you  they  must  be  in  London  for  the  great 
shanachie  that  you  are;  the  greatest  in  all  the  world, 
I'm  thinking.  But  maybe,  he  continued,  interpreting  my 
silence  as  a  confession  that  London  had  not  done  justice 
to  whatever  small  talent  may  be  mine,  they  are  passing 
you  over  for  the  bitter  jealousy  there  is  in  England 
always  of  everything  that  comes  out  of  old  Ireland.  And 
didn't  they  strip  us  of  our  lands  and  our  laws,  of  our  own 
language  itself?  and  aren't  all  the  old  houses  being  emptied 
now  of  the  fine  furniture  we  made  in  Dublin?  and  the 
pictures,  and  the  silver  spoons  and  dishes,  all  our  handi- 
work, sold  in  London,  bad  cess  to  them?  And  aren't  they 
still  at  the  same  old  scheming,  ferreting  out  our  old 
stories,  turning  them  all  into  rags  and  tatters,  for  not 
understanding  the  significance  of  anything  in  them. 
Isn't  it  the  truth  I'm  telling  your  honour? 

Before  I  could  answer  him,  Alec  began  again:  but 
you're  a  Mayo  man  like  myself,  and  if  you  should  think 
it  worth  your  while  to  be  writing  out  any  of  the  stories 


326      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

I've  been  telling  you,  it  is  meself  that  will  be  the  proud 
man,  for  it  won't  be  taking  back  a  pailful  of  potato  skins 
you  will  be  doing  like  the  lady  in  Galway,  but  fine  spuds 
in  which  there  is  a  rich  diet.  Faith  and  troth  that  is  why 
I  have  opened  my  mind  to  you,  for  I  wouldn't  have  our 
old  stories  betrayed  and  destroyed  any  longer  than  I  can 
help  it.  'Tis  the  nature  of  stories  to  be  travelling;  always 
footing  it  one  way  or  the  other.  So  'tis  no  use  trying  to 
keep  them  to  ourselves,  I  know  that,  but  I  would  like  them 
to  appear  in  their  emigrations  clean  and  tidy,  just  that,  so 
that  they  may  see  over  yonder  that  we  have  a  shanachie 
as  good  or  better  than  their  own.  The  stories  you  have 
told  me,  I  said,  are  the  gift  of  the  shanachie  of  Westport 
to  the  shanachie  of  Ballinrobe.  If  your  honour  likes  to 
think  of  it  in  that  way,  he  answered,  'tis  a  great  honour 
you're  doing  me  by  comparing  me  with  yourself.  Com- 
paring myself  with  yourself?  I  rapped  out.  Why,  Alec,  we 
have  been  telling  stories  one  against  the  other,  and  the 
best  of  the  bunch  is  "The  Nuns  of  Crith  Gaille";  and  by 
far.  We  will  never  be  agreed  about  that,  your  honour. 
Well,  more  is  the  pity,  I  replied,  and  if  we  aren't  agreed 
among  ourselves  I  don't  know  how  it  is  to  be  settled 
unless  we  ring  the  chapel  bell  and  call  a  meeting  with  the 
priest  in  the  chair. 

At  the  word  priest  Alec's  face  turned  grave,  and  it  came 
into  my  mind  that  I  was  just  about  to  lose  the  original 
Alec  which  it  had  taken  me  a  fortnight  to  evoke.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair,  I  said,  for  me  to  tell  stories  against  you 
in  your  own  parish,  and  the  words  had  no  sooner  passed 
my  lips  than  I  regretted  them.  We  should  do  well  not  to 
be  talking  about  the  priest  at  all,  Alec  said,  for  the  clergy 
do  not  take  kindly  to  hearing  stories  told  against  them- 
selves, even  if  they  be  in  the  years  back.  And  not 
another  word  could  I  get  from  him.  He  sat,  as  it 
were,  frozen  in  his  meditations,  and  was  not  roused  out 
of  them  till  at  last  I  said :  there  have  been  great  shanachies 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      327 

in  this  world,  Alec;  greater  than  we.  Now  do  you  think 
there  were  any  greater  than  yourself,  your  honour?  I  do, 
indeed,  Alec,  though  I  admire  "The  Nuns  of  Crith  Gaille" 
more  than  any  of  my  own  stories.  You'll  be  turning  my 
head  if  you  say  any  more  about  that  story,  he  answered, 
and  he  asked  me  who  were  the  world's  great  shanachies. 
Had  I  shaken  hands  with  any  of  them?  With  one,  I  have. 
An  Englishman?  Alec  interjected.  No,  Alec.  The 
Englishman,  to  my  thinking,  isn't  a  story-teller  at  all.  He 
tells  of  parsons  and  croquet  lawns,  and  is  home-sick  when 
he  leaves  them.  He  tells  a  tea-party  well  enough,  and 
has  a  quick  eye  to  spy  out  the  difference  between  one 
woman's  talk  and  another;  whether  she  visits  the  big 
houses  and  if  she  has  the  talk  of  the  gentry  tripping  on 
her  tongue.  But  there  is  no  diet  in  the  Englishman's 
stories,  if  I  may  borrow  one  of  your  own  expressive 
phrases.  But  there  was  a  great  shanachie  over  in  France 
in  the  years  back.  Was  there  now?  Alec  interjected. 
There  has  been  one,  troth  and  faith,  I  answered,  one  that 
overtops  all  the  others,  wherever  you  may  go  looking  for 
them.  Now,  your  honour,  Alec  cried,  you  will  be  delight- 
ing me,  begob  you  will,  by  telling  me  something  about  the 
great  shanachie.  Balzac,  I  said.  But  no  sooner  was  the 
name  out  of  my  mouth  than  I  began  to  regret  having 
mentioned  him,  for  it  is  difficult  to  pick  a  story  out  of  the 
great  Human  Comedy  that  would  appeal  to  an  imaginative 
uneducated  fellow  and  of  all  something  that  could  be 
related  on  a  June  morning  in  a  sunny  wood  by  an  old 
deserted  mill. 

But  Alec  was  intent  to  hear  one  of  Balzac's  stories  from 
me,  and  as  an  earnest  of  Balzac's  originality  I  began  to 
tell  a  half -remembered,  half-forgotten  story  of  a  son  that 
acted  as  executioner  to  his  family,  striking  off  their  heads, 
one  after  the  other;  besought,  Alec,  by  every  one  of  them 
to  be  brave  and  to  strike  firmly  and  straight.  You  must 
know  that  it  fell  out  in  Spain,  when  the  Spaniards  who 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

had  been  conquered  by  the  French  were  conspiring  to  rid 
themselves  of  their  conquerors,  and  to  do  this  it  behoved 
him  on  whomsoever  the  lot  should  fall  to  kill  the  sentry; 
the  family  are  watching  from  a  window:  death  if  he  fails. 
The  cry  of  a  bird,  some  vague  sound  attracts  the  sentry; 
he  turns;  all  is  lost.  The  Spaniard  is  seized.  The 
French  general  is  a  man  of  iron,  and  to  make  an  end  of 
the  conspiracies  that  were  always  hatching  he  decides 
that  not  only  the  spy  must  be  beheaded,  but  the  entire 
family.  The  blotting  out  of  an  ancient  lineage,  one 
that  was  before  the  Arabs  conquered  Spain,  is  not  easily 
apprehended  by  us.  A  Spaniard  alone  could  appreciate 
the  father's  despair.  All  the  same  I  think  I  under- 
stand, Alec  said,  and  I  gathered  from  his  tone  he  was 
already  interested  in  the  story.  The  father  beseeches, 
he  begs  that  one  member  may  be  spared  to  continue 
the  name — he  asks  for  the  life  of  his  youngest  son — that 
is  all;  if  he  could  be  spared,  the  rest  don't  matter;  for 
individual  death  is  nothing  to  a  Spaniard;  the  name 
everything,  and  the  family  I  am  telling  was,  as  I  have 
said,  before  the  Arabs;  maybe  fifty  generations  had 
come  and  gone.  The  general,  I  have  related,  is  a  man 
of  iron.  Yes,  one  member  of  your  family  shall  be 
respited,  he  answers,  but  on  one  condition.  To  the 
agonised  family,  conditions  are  as  nothing.  But  they 
don't  know  that  the  man  of  iron  is  determined  to  make 
a  terrible  example,  one  that  will  make  an  end  of  Spanish 
conspiracy,  and  they  cry:  any  conditions.  He  who  is 
respited  must  serve  as  executioner  to  the  other.  Great 
is  the  price;  but  the  name  must  be  saved  at  all  costs, 
and  in  the  family  council  the  father  goes  to  his  son  and 
says:  I  have  been  a  good  father  to  you,  my  son;  I  have 
always  been  a  kind  father,  have  I  not?  Answer  me  that, 
You  will  not  fail  us;  you  will  prove  yourself  worthy  of 
your  great  ancestor  who  defeated  the  Arabs,  remember! 
The  mother  goes  to  her  son  and  says:  my  son,  I  have 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      329 

been  a  good  mother,  I  have  always  loved  you;  you  will 
not  desert  us  in  this  hour  of  our  great  need.  The  little 
sister  goes  to  him.  One  by  one  the  whole  family  goes  to 
him  and  they  kneel  down  and  beg  him  to  save  the  family 
from  death.  He  will  not  prove  himself  unworthy  of  our 
name,  they  cry;  and  on  the  fatal  morning  the  father  says: 
take  the  axe  firmly,  do  what  I  ask  you;  courage,  and  strike 
straight.  The  father's  head  falls  into  the  sawdust,  the 
blood  all  over  the  white  beard.  Then  comes  the  elder 
brother,  and  then  another  brother;  and  then  the  little 
sister.  She  is  almost  more  than  he  can  bear,  and  his 
mother  has  to  whisper:  remember  your  promise  to  your 
dead  father.  Therefore  he  strikes  off  his  sister's  head;  his 
mother  lays  her  head  on  the  block,  but  he  cannot  kill  his 
mother.  Be  not  the  first  coward  of  our  name!  Strike; 
remember  your  promise  to  us  all.  Her  head  is  struck  off. 
The  family  is  saved 

And  the  son,  Alec  asked,  what  became  of  him?  He 
was  never  seen,  Alec,  save  at  night,  walking,  a  solitary 
man,  beneath  the  walls  of  his  castle  in  Granada.  And 
he  never  married?  You've  guessed  rightly,  Alec.  He 
never  married.  'Tis  a  great  story  surely,  Alec  muttered. 
We  walked  a  few  yards  in  silence,  and  finding  a  comfort- 
able bank  to  lie  upon  under  the  tall  trees  overhanging  the 
torrent,  I  related  some  of  the  droll  stories,  causing  Alec  to 
chuckle,  but  only  languidly.  He  prefers  his  own,  I  said 
to  myself,  and  we  passed  on  to  the  war  stories,  and  he 
liked  Adieu,  and  seemed  to  understand  the  pathetic  figure 
of  the  retired  tradesman  who  lived  in  a  garret  so  that  his 
daughters  might  make  rich  marriages  and  shine  in  society; 
and  I  might  have  heard  the  story  of  an  Irish  Lear  from 
him  if  I  had  not  been  eager  to  tell  another  Balzac. 

But  Balzac,  although  appreciated  by  Alec,  did  not 
capture  his  imagination  as  the  Russian  writers  did. 
Dostoieffsky  discovered  horizons  more  lurid.  Tolstoy's 
moralities,  I  said  to  myself,  are  not  easy  to  deal  with,  and  I 


330      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

passed  on  to  Tchertkoff ,  who  pleased  him,  and  in  much  the 
same  way  as  he  pleases  me.  .1  longed  to  speak  of  Tour- 
gueneff  but  dared  not,  afraid  that  the  delicate  rhythms  and 
almost  pallid  beauty  of  his  stories  would  escape  a  rustic  ear 
and  eye.  In  this  I  was  mistaken;  for  every  one  of  the 
Tales  of  a  Sportman  was  understood,  and  the  Dream  Tales, 
who  would  have  thought  it,  were  a  grand  success.  It  was 
while  telling  one  of  these  that  we  passed  out  of  the  wood 
on  to  the  terraced  walk  overlooking  the  park,  our  eyes 
fixed ;  I  say  our  eyes,  for  so  beautiful  was  the  airy  prospect 
that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  think  that  even  Alec  who 
had  been  watching  it  all  his  life,  could  keep  his  eyes  from 
the  mountain  range  above  the  town — hills  rising  one  above 
the  other,  buttressing  Croagh  Patrick,  leaving  the  perfect 
outlines  of  the  peak  showing  against  a  brilliant  sky  with 
the  shadowy  outlines  of  the  Connemara  hills  far  away, 
shadowy  and  far  away  as  the  tales  that  I  had  just  been 
relating. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  silence,  Alec  said:  was  this  the 
great  shanachie  your  honour  shook  hands  with?  Yes, 
Alec,  that  was  the  one.  And  I  told  him  how  I  had  seen 
this  great  man  in  the  gardens  of  the  Ely  see  Montmartre. 
Public  gardens,  I  said,  in  which  a  band  plays,  and  the 
people  dance  in  the  open  air  under  the  trees,  if  it  be 
fine,  and  in  a  ballroom  if  the  weather  be  wet.  So  it  must 
have  been  wet  on  the  occasion  that  I  saw  this  great  man, 
for  he  was  walking  down  the  ballroom,  a  great  man  and 
a  big  one  as  well — as  big  as  Maliche  Daly,  standing  six 
feet  four  at  least,  and  with  a  head  on  him  as  white 
as  Croagh  Patrick's  peak  after  a  fall  of  snow,  upright 
as  a  tree,  and  a  walk  on  him  like  a  stag:  a  noble,  knowl- 
edgeable man,  one  that  had  lived  a  long  time  in  the 
world,  but  standing  apart  like  a  mountain  among  hills. 
Like  the  peak,  your  honour,  said  Alec.  Just  so,  I  see 
you  understand  him:  and  his  stories,  too,  are  as  beautiful 
in    outline    as    the    hills,    sometimes    a    little    dimmer, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      331 

like Like  the  Connemara  hills  in  the  gap  beyond, 

Alec  interrupted,  and  I  answered,  precisely,  I  see 
you  understand.  Did  he  speak  to  your  honour? 
Alec  asked.  He  was  kind  enough  to  speak  to  me, 
though  I  was  but  a  boy  in  those  days;  and  I  told  Alec 
that  the  great  shanachie's  words  had  remained  with 
me  all  my  life,  so  wise  did  they  seem;  but  as  they 
were  spoken  in  the  French  language,  and  about  books 
that  Alec  had  not  read,  it  would  be  useless  for  me  to 
try  to  translate  the  shanachie's  wisdom.  Alec  accepted 
my  judgment  as  to  what  could  be  told  and  what  should 
be  left  out  of  a  narrative,  and  asked  me  which  was  the 
greater  of  the  two,  Tourgueneff  or  Dostoieffsky.  My 
vote  was  given  long  ago  to  Tourgueneff,  Alec;  I  plumped 
for  him.  And  myself  wouldn't  be  saying  that  there 
was  anything  amiss  with  that  plump,  Alec  returned. 
But  would  it  be  asking  too  much  if  I  were  to  ask  you 
to  tell  me  what  t'other  was  like?  I  never  saw  Dostoieffsky 
in  the  flesh,  but  in  the  portraits  that  they  publish  in 
his  books  he  appears  like  an  unhappy,  almost  afflicted 
man  from  the  working  classes.  There  is  a  good  deal 
or  Tartar  blood  in  Russia,  and  Dostoieffsky's  flat,  shallow 
face,  with  insignificant  features  and  eyes  turned  up 
at  the  corners,  recall  the  Tartar  of  Chinese  type,  and 
were  it  not  for  the  agitated  eyes  no  one  would  suspect 
he  was  looking  at  the  portrait  of  a  great  man.  But  the 
agitated  eyes  tell  that  something  awful  had  happened 
to  him,  and  something  very  awful  did  happen  to  him 
in  the  beginning  of  his  life;  not  many  years  after  writing 
Poor  Folk,  the  book  we  were  talking  about  yesterday,  he 
was  on  his  way  to  the  scaffold,  on  the  scaffold  maybe,  when 
the  reprieve  came,  altering  the  sentence  of  death  to  one  of 
banishment  to  Siberia.  His  face  in  the  portrait  tells  of  an 
unfortunate  man,  one  who  was  unlucky  from  the  begin- 
ning; an  epileptic  he  was,  and  his  life  was  lived  in  great 
poverty;  in  such  poverty,  Alec,  that  there  was  no  time 


332      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

for  him  to  read  over  his  manuscripts  before  they  went 

to  the  printer.     Tourgueneff  admired  his  genius,  but 

Were  they  friends?  Alec  rapped  out.  They  must  have 
known  each  other,  but  they  couldn't  be  friends,  for  they 
were  too  different,  coming  from  different  classes,  and  out 
of  a  different  tradition.  Nor  were  they  even  of  the  same 
race,  I  muttered.  Two  great  men  writing  prose  narrative 
in  the  same  language,  that  was  all.  There  are  stories 
going  about,  Alec,  of  a  strange  visit  that  Dostoieffsky  paid 
to  Tourgueneff.  Dostoieffsky  had  come  to  Paris  once  to 
arrange  for  the  publication  of  his  works  in  a  French  trans- 
lation, and  it  is  said,  mind  you,  I  don't  vouch  for  the 
truth  of  the  story,  but  it  has  got  about  that  one  evening, 
overtaken  by  his  conscience,  he  rushed  off  to  Tourgueneff 
to  confess  a  crime  he  had  committed  years  ago  in  Moscow. 
There  being  no  priest  handy,  I  suppose?  Alec  interjected. 
I'm  afraid  neither  of  them  set  much  store  on  priests,  I 
replied;  but  even  those  who  do  not  believe  in  priests  like 
to  unburden  themselves  sometimes;  a  man  who  has 
committed  a  crime  cannot  keep  his  secret  always;  a 
secret  will  out,  as  you've  often  heard,  Alec.  I've  heard, 
Alec  said,  that  murder  will  out.  A  much  worse  crime 
than  many  murders  was  the  crime  that  compelled  him 
to  seek  out  Tourgueneff  in  Paris.  You  must  know, 
Alec,  that  houses  in  Paris  are  very  big;  and  on  every 
storey  there  are  as  many  rooms  as  in  a  whole  house  here. 
I  suppose  that  this  plan  was  adopted  with  a  view  to  fewer 
servants,  for  there  is  no  going  up  and  down  stairs  in  a 
flat;  the  rooms  open  one  into  the  other,  and  Tour- 
gueneff had  come  through  the  folding  doors  from  the 
dining-room  into  a  white-painted,  low-ceilinged  saloon, 
which  would  have  seemed  somewhat  finicky  to  Dostoieff- 
sky if  he  had  had  eyes  to  see  the  grey  silk  curtains  and 
beautifully  bound  books.  There  were  comely  little 
book-cases  hanging  from  the  walls  and  standing  in 
corners,  filled  with  choice  volumes  which  could  not  have 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      333 

failed  to  attract  anybody  except  a  somnambulist,  some- 
body walking  in  a  dream,  and  that  was  how  Dostoieffsky 
came  into  the  room:  like  one  in  a  trance.  He  knew 
Tourgueneff  was  there,  and  that's  about  all — Tourgueneff 
only  concerning  him.  He  was  not  aware  of  the  hour, 
which,  as  I  have  said,  was  an  hour  after  dinner,  some- 
where about  nine  o'clock.  He  was  not  aware  that 
Tourgueneff  was  busy;  nor  of  the  embarrassment  his 
name  created  when  the  servant  announced  it:  only 
aware  of  the  torture  he  experienced  in  the  few  minutes 
he  had  been  kept  waiting  in  the  ante-room.  For  every 
moment  in  that  room  was  terrible  till  the  moment  came 
for  him  to  unburden  his  conscience  of  the  crime  committed 
in  Moscow  years  and  years  ago.  Remorse,  he  said,  has 
got  hold  of  me  now  as  it  never  did  before,  and  he  stood 
looking  at  Tourgueneff,  hardly  seeing  him  at  all;  Vera's 
face,  the  girl  that  had  sent  him,  was  much  clearer  to 
him.  Didn't  Tourgueneff  offer  him  a  chair  or  say  some- 
thing to  him?  Alec  asked.  Yes;  Tourgueneff  came 
forward  with  a  chair,  but  Dostoieffsky  waived  him 
aside  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  finding  a  way 
through  the  furniture  instinctively  without  falling  over 
any  chair  or  table,  which  was  wonderful,  for  he  seemed 
like  a  man  without  eyes,  and  after  a  while  he  found  his 
way  back  to  where  Tourgueneff  was  sitting.  It  was 
last  night,  he  said:  she  was  by  me,  and  it  was  she  who 
sent  me  hither.  The  dead  have  a  strange  power  over 
us,  and  she  is  dead  many  years:    ten  years  ago  at  least. 

It  was  at  Moscow.     One  night,   Ivan  Sergeivitch 

Who  is  that  one,  Ivan  Ser  .  .  .  vitch?  Alec  rapped  out. 
Tourgueneff,  I  answered.     Russians  who  are  strangers 

address  each  other  as  son  of Like  the  Irish  Mac, 

Alec  said,  and  I  answered  that  it  was  so.  And  Tour- 
gueneff would  address  Dostoieffsky  as  Theodore  Mik- 
hailovitch.  'Tis  a  terrible  way  of  saying  Mac,  said  Alec, 
and  to  escape  further  questions  I  repeat  Dostoieffsky's 


334      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

last  words.  It  was  one  night  in  Moscow,  at  the  hub  of 
the  streets,  I  met  her,  after  a  long  day's  work,  and  so 
brain-weary  was  I  that  I  could  hardly  see  or  hear  when  a 
girl's  voice  awoke  me.  I'm  afraid  I  frightened  you,  the 
girl  said.  You  startled  me  a  little,  I  answered:  but  my 
appearance  must  have  frightened  you,  my  mind  was  far 
away.  You're  not  even  awake  yet,  she  said.  Oh,  but  I 
am,  I  answered,  and  we  walked  on  together,  myself 
listening  to  her  story  of  herself,  glad  to  listen  to  it,  to 
anything  that  took  me  out  of  myself.  She  told  me  she 
wanted  to  learn  English,  and  the  only  way,  she  said,  is 
to  get  a  situation  in  England.  I'm  after  one,  but  I'm 
not  certain  that  I  shall  be  able  to  get  it,  for  you  see, 
I've  no  reference.  And  how  is  that?  You  seem  a  good 
little  girl.  I  used  to  be,  but  I  don't  know  that  I  am  any 
longer.  How  did  it  come  about?  I  was  looking,  she 
said,  after  some  children  in  a  tradesman's  family,  and  one 
day  in  the  park  a  dog  attacked  the  children,  and  all 
three  might  have  been  bitten  if  a  student  had  not  come 
forward  and  driven  off  the  dog.  We  met  again  the  next 
day  and  the  next  and  the  next,  and  all  might  have  gone 
on  very  well  if  one  of  the  children  hadn't  walked  into  the 
pond  after  his  boat,  and  when  I  was  asked  to  explain  how 
I  was  not  by  to  prevent  him  doing  such  a  foolish  thing, 
one  of  the  children  answered:  Vera  was  talking  with 
the  student  who  drove  the  dog  off.  The  student  returned 
again  and  again,  and  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  I  lost 
my  situation,  being  deemed,  so  it  was  said,  unfit  to  look 
after  children.  As  I  was  in  love  with  Ivan  and  he  with 
me,  I  went  to  live  with  him,  and  when  he  left  Moscow 
I  took  on  with  his  friend,  a  Roumanian.  And  what 
then?  I  said.  When  he  left  there  was  another  and  then 
another.  And  then?  And  then,  she  said,  I  found  myself 
obliged  to  go  out  into  the  thoroughfare  to  find  some- 
body to  whom  I  might  take  a  fancy  and  who  might  take 
a  fancy  to  me.     As  it  happened  to-night,  if  we  have 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      335 

taken  a  fancy  to  each  other.  But  I've  only  been  out 
here  once  before;  my  word  on  it;  and  I  assured  her  that 
I  believed  what  she  had  told  me,  though  it  seemed  to  me 
to  matter  very  little  whether  she  had  given  herself  to 
three  men  or  to  four,  for  money  or  caprice. 

She  had  a  pretty  face  and  an  engaging  manner,  and 
every  word  she  spoke  revealed  a  beautiful  mind  that 
circumstances  could  not  defile.  Now  what  have  you 
been  doing?  she  said,  to  change  the  subject,  which  was 
becoming  a  bit  irksome  to  both  of  us,  and  I  told  her  that 
I  was  a  man  who  wrote  stories  for  a  living,  and  had  come 
out  to  escape  from  the  people  of  my  imagination.  But 
why  do  you  wish  to  forget  them?  I  would  forget  them,  I 
said,  to-night,  so  that  I  may  remember  them  better 
to-morrow,  and  I'm  grateful  to  you  for  speaking  to  me, 
for  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  little  talk  with  you,  perhaps 
I  shouldn't  have  closed  my  eyes  to-night.  And  to-morrow 
will  be  a  day  of  twelve  or  fourteen  hours.  Must  you 
work  as  hard  as  that?  I  must,  indeed,  for  I  have  no 
money  except  the  few  roubles  that  publishers  pay  me  for 
my  stories.  And  I  don't  know  if  life  will  ever  become  any 
easier.  You  see  I've  only  just  returned  from  Siberia:  I 
worked  in  chains  for  five  years,  because  I  wished  to  free 
the  people  from  the  police.  So  you're  a  convict,  I  heard 
her  say,  and  I  expected  her  to  drop  behind.  I  don't 
mind  that,  she  said,  for  it  was  for  having  a  better  heart 
than  another  the  police  were  down  on  you.  Perhaps 
you're  right,  I  answered,  but  I  thought  it  well  to  tell 
you  who  I  am,  for  it  may  do  you  harm  to  be  seen  walking 
with  an  ex-convict.  I'm  not  afraid  of  that,  and  I  saw 
that  my  confession,  instead  of  estranging  us,  as  I  had 
intended,  seemed  to  unite  us,  which  is  only  natural;  the 
outcast  only  can  speak  intimately  to  the  outcast.  We 
walked  on,  discovering  ourselves  one  to  the  other,  and 
when  I  stopped  to  bid  her  good-bye  it  seemed  to  both  of 
us  that  for  a  night  at  least  we  were  destined  for  each  other. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

It  was  then  that  I  began  to  look  her  over,  and  her 
clothes,  her  accent,  told  me  she  was  a  workgirl,  the 
typical  workgirl  of  Moscow,  and,  I  said,  she  has  told 
me  the  truth;  she  has  been  a  nursery-maid  and  needs 
money,  and  I've  none  to  give  her.  You  need  money, 
I  said,  and  in  coming  with  me  you  are  leaving  money 
behind  you.  Never  mind;  I  would  sooner  go  hungry 
to-morrow  than  lose  you  to-night.  But  I  have  some 
money,  very  little  it  is  true,  so  little,  that  if  I  were  to 
call  that  cab  I  should  be  ashamed  to  offer  you  what 
remained.  We  can  walk,  she  answered,  and  it  was  not 
till  we  were  fairly  out  of  the  city  that  her  legs  began 
to  ache.  Let  us  rest  awhile,  she  said.  I  shall  be  able 
to  go  on  presently.  But  your  lodgings  are  not  very 
far  off,  she  replied,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  last  cab  on 
the  last  rank.  But  I'm  dead-tired,  and  it  wouldn't 
cost  much  to  ride  the  rest  of  the  way;  it  isn't  more 
than  half-a-mile.  It's  lucky  it  isn't  more,  I  answered, 
for  the  last  cab  looks  as  if  it  had  already  accomplished 
its  last  journey.  The  horse  too,  Vera  said,  is  near 
his  end;  his  head  is  sunk  between  his  forelegs;  and 
it  was  with  a  view  to  shortening  his  journey  by  a  few 
yards  that  we  crossed  the  road.  An  absurd  thought, 
I  remarked,  and  Vera  agreed  that  the  extra  yards  could 
not  make  much  difference,  but  like  me  she  felt  she 
must  save  the  horse  from  the  labour  of  dragging  the  cab 
across  the  street.  And  when  we  were  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  the  horse  fell  suddenly.  He'll  get  up  when 
I've  loosened  the  traces  and  drawn  away  the  cab,  the 
driver  muttered,  as  he  bent  over  the  harness.  He 
plied  his  whip,  but  the  horse  was  dead,  and  we  turned 
away,  frightened,  myself  wondering  if  we  should  accept 
the  horse's  death  as  a  warning,  as  an  omen.  I  think 
even  little  Vera  was  frightened,  moved  by  the  untoward 
occurrence,  but  at  fifteen  one  isn't  given  to  the  reading 
of  omens.     You  see  she  was  only  a  child,  and  I  listened 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      337 

to  her  prattle,  my  thoughts  wandering  between  the 
magnitude  of  the  universe  and  the  accident  that  had 
forced  this  long  walk  upon  us,  robbing  me,  perhaps,  of 
the  love  night  that  I  looked  forward  to  so  greedily. 
She  will  be  too  tired,  I  said,  and  that  was  all  I  thought 
about:    whether  she  would  be  too  tired  for  love. 

Vera,  I'm  trying  to  confess  all.  Have  patience.  Have 
I  not  come  to  him  to  whom  thou  didst  send  me?  Am 
I  not  telling  all?  Thou  knowest  that  I  am  concealing 
nothing,  not  even  the  shameful  lust  that  entered  my 
heart,  when  I  heard  thee  say,  with  a  smothered  burst 
of  laughter,  that  the  last  candle-end  had  been  burnt  out 
and  we  should  have  to  undress  in  the  dark.  I  had 
looked  forward  to  seeing  thee  unpin  thy  pins,  and  untie 
thy  bows,  revealing  each  delicate  form  of  thy  body 
to  me,  and  so  great  was  my  disappointment  that  there 
was  no  candle  that  I  confided  my  disappointment  to 
thee,  and  having  thought  only  for  my  pleasure,  the 
curtain  was  drawn;  it  was  thy  hands  that  drew  it,  letting 
the  moonlight  into  the  room. 

I  can  see  her  still.  Certain  parts  of  her  are  before  my 
eyes,  and  her  talk  is  ringing  in  my  ears,  and  will  ring  in 
them  for  ever.  We  may  escape  from  the  living  but  the 
dead  never  relax  their  clutch,  and  it  is  more  often  a  dead 
hand  than  a  living  one  that  urges  a  man  to  his  doom. 
After  all,  did  she  not  love  me?  But  did  I  love  her? 
How  could  one  such  as  I  love  her?  To  love  one  must 
have  leisure,  and  there  was  none  in  my  life.  For  bare  life 
I  had  to  sit  at  a  writing-table  for  ten,  twelve,  fourteen 
hours  a  day,  and  the  police  are  always  at  the  heels  of  an 
ex-convict.  My  life  was  beset  with  difficulties,  and  as  she 
strove  to  detain  me,  her  hand  on  the  lapel  of  my  coat,  I 
began  to  regret  that  we  had  met  each  other,  for  I  foresaw 
the  necessity  of  breaking  with  her.  When  shall  we  meet 
again?  she  asked,  in  her  simplicity.  When  shall  we  meet 
again?  I  repeated,  almost  ironically.     Have  I  not  told 


338      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

you,  I  said,  folding  her  in  my  arms,  that  I  am  a  penniless 
convict  from  Siberia.  Why  should  you  wish  to  see  me 
again?  That  I  do  not  know,  she  replied,  but  do  let  me 
come  to  see  you;  I  promise  I  won't  disturb  you  while 
you're  writing.  I'll  sit  in  a  corner  very  quiet,  reading 
the  pages  as  you  throw  them  aside.  I  could  see  the 
tears  trembling  on  her  eyelids,  ready  to  flow  over  them. 
But  my  life  was  so  dark,  without  a  gleam  in  it  at  that 
time  (it  has  always  been  dark,  a  hopeless  life)  that  I  did 
not  dare  to  invite  her  into  the  danger  which  I  knew  was 
preparing.     I  cannot,  I  said:    I'm  a  convict;   the  police 

are  always  watching  me.     You're  a  child,  and If 

you're  afraid  to  let  me  come  to  see  you,  tell  me  where 
you  walk  in  the  evenings,  and,  not  foreseeing  that  we 
should  ever  run  up  against  each  other  in  the  Nikolskaya, 
I  told  her  that  I  walked  there  nearly  every  evening,  and 
bade  her  good-bye,  going  back  to  my  garret,  thinking,  not 
of  her,  but  of  the  work  that  would  have  to  be  accom- 
plished before  the  sun  set  again. 

My  work  left  me  too  tired  to  go  out,  and  the  next 
day  was  the  same,  and  the  day  after;  but  after  several 
days  of  work  there  came  a  swimming  in  my  head,  and  I 
went  out  to  get  the  air,  and  to  try  to  forget  the  people 
my  pen  had  been  calling  into  life  all  day.  It  is  necessary 
to  forget  them  sometimes  so  that  we  may  not  forget 
them  when  the  time  comes  for  work  again.  The  very 
first  thing  that  night  was  Vera  looking  into  the  faces 
of  the  passengers,  and  turning  away  from  them,  as  soon 
as  she  had  scanned  them,  seeking  somebody  whom 
she  could  not  find,  looking  into  their  faces  and  turning 
away  again.  She  is  seeking  me,  I  said,  and  passed 
up  a  side  street,  thinking  to  escape,  for  the  sense  that 
she  was  a  danger  to  me  was  stronger  than  ever.  We're 
a  mutual  danger,  I  said  to  myself,  and  perhaps  it  was 
the  sense  that  she  was  a  danger  to  me  that  drew  me 
to  her  next  day,  for  I  walked  out  into  the  Nikolskaya, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      339 

asking  myself  if  she  was  still  looking  for  me.  She  was 
there,  and  I  saw  her,  as  before,  looking  into  the  faces  of 
the  passengers,  turning  away  from  them,  refusing  many 
men  who  came  and  solicited  her.  She  is  refusing  them, 
I  said,  because  I  am  upon  her  mind.  My  misfortunes 
have  attracted  her.  And  then  I  began  to  argue  with 
myself,  asking  myself:  what  imagined  doom  can  there 
be  for  us?  A  girl  like  any  other  girl,  and,  I  repeated, 
a  man  like  any  other  man,  but  when  I  uttered  these 
words  I  knew  I  was  speaking  a  lie.  For  I'm  not  like  any 
other;  and,  my  thoughts  travelling  over  my  past  life,  I 
sought  to  discover  if  I  were  as  different  as  I  imagined 
myself  to  be,  but  after  scanning  the  terrible  history  that 
every  year  unfolded,  I  closed  the  book,  frightened,  and 
fell  to  thinking  of  Vera.  A  thirst  was  upon  me  to  see 
her;  it  was  not  the  thirst  for  her  body,  not  altogether, 
but  the  thirst  for  companionship:  my  life  was  lonely, 
lonelier  than  it  had  ever  been  in  Siberia.  I  reasoned 
with  myself.  I  said:  I  must  bear  with  myself,  I  am 
done  for,  but  let  me  not  drag  her  down  with  me.  And 
I  swear  that  I  kept  myself  for  days  and  weeks  from 
turning  into  the  Nikolskaya  lest  we  should  meet.  But  at 
last  the  day  came  when  I  began  to  feel  that  my  dreams 
were  becoming  me,  and  the  hallucinations  of  my  people 
mine.  I  began  to  fear  my  people  as  one  fear  spectres. 
I  must  escape  from  them,  I  cried,  else  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  recall  them  again.  .  .  .  If  I  do  not  drive  them 
away  to-night  they  may  refuse  to  obey  me  to-morrow. 

And  as  I  jostled  through  the  crowds,  neither  hearing 
nor  seeing,  a  voice  awake  me  suddenly.  It  was  Vera.  So 
I  have  found  you  at  last,  she  said.  Why  haven't  you 
walked  here  before?  I  looked  into  her  eyes  without 
speaking.  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?  she  said.  Yes,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you,  I  answered,  but  my  mind  is  away,  and  I 
neither  see  the  people  about  me  nor  have  I  any  mind  left 
to  understand  what  is  being  said  to  me.     You'll  be  better 


340      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

presently,  she  answered.  Let  us  walk  on  together. 
Your  mind  will  return  to  you  presently.  But  if  you  work 
so  hard  you  will  kill  yourself,  and  then  what  shall  I  do? 
The  word  touched  my  heart  and  I  awoke  from  my 
dreams  of  a  bastard  son,  an  epileptic  like  myself;  one 
that  had  committed  a  murder  and  had  forgotten  it — 
Smerdyakov. 

I  am  myself  again,  I  said,  and  remembering  at  the  same 
moment  that  I  had  money  in  my  pockets,  having  sold 
some  manuscript,  I  said:  let  us  go  into  an  eating-house 
and  have  some  supper.  I  should  be  very  glad,  she 
answered,  for  I'm  hungry.  You  haven't  eaten  to-day? 
and  she  answered:  I  have  not.  It  was  unwise  for  me 
to  take  her  into  an  eating-house,  for  when  she  had  eaten 
and  drunk  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  to  take  her 
back  into  my  garret,  and  after  I  did  that,  would  I  be 
strong  enough  to  turn  her  out  of  it  in  the  morning?  I 
knew  that  I  should  not  turn  her  out,  for  reason  is  not 
listened  to  in  such  moments.  Were  it  listened  to,  the  world 
would  have  ceased  long  ago;  it  cannot  check  even  the 
philosopher;  we  belong  to  ourselves,  to  our  instincts  and 
passions,  and,  forgetful  of  aught  else,  I  listened  to  Vera, 
who  said  she  would  be  the  happiest  girl  in  the  word  if  I 
would  share  my  garret  with  her;  and  we  were  happy  for 
longer  than  I  thought  it  possible  that  I  could  be  happy — 
for  nearly  three  months.  But  all  the  time  Vera's  golden 
ringlets  and  happy  smiles  were  setting  the  tongues  of 
enviers  and  rivals  wagging,  and  the  police  are  adepts  at 
indirect  means  of  compulsion.  It  may  have  been  the  po- 
lice and  it  may  not  have  been  the  police,  but  objections 
to  my  work  began  to  arise.  I  lost  some  of  my  customers, 
and  feared  that  I  should  lose  more.  It  was  not  an 
imaginary  persecution,  I  swear  it.  Every  day  it  became 
more  intense  and  determined,  till  the  old  fear  awoke  in 
me,  and  my  thoughts  began  to  talk  to  me  again,  saying 
that  I  had  dragged  this  poor  child  into  a  whirlpool  of 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      341 

misfortune,  for  you  are  that  and  nothing  more,  my  thoughts 
muttered.  And  I  yielded  to  the  belief  that  my  life  in  the 
world  would  drag  on  as  it  had  begun,  in  disaster.  Vera, 
I  said,  I  am  as  a  leper;  you  would  do  well  to  leave  me. 
Do  you  care  for  me  no  longer?  she  asked.  And  there 
was  no  strength  in  me  to  answer  her:  Vera,  we  have  had 
our  time  of  life  together;  be  wise  and  leave  me,  for  I  can 
only  bring  misfortune  to  you.  Had  I  spoken  these  words 
she  would  not  have  understood  them.  She  might  have 
said:  you're  talking  to  me  now  as  the  people  talk  in  your 
books.  So  I  said  nothing.  She  asked  me  of  what  I  was 
thinking.  Of  you,  darling,  I  said,  but  I  was  really  thinking, 
though  I  did  not  dare  to  tell  her,  that  it  were  better  that 
she  should  return  to  the  streets  than  remain  with  me,  for 
on  the  streets  she  might  meet  any  evening  an  honest  fellow 
who  would  be  tempted  at  first  by  her  child  beauty  and 
learn  to  appreciate  her  gentle  nature  and  marry  her. 
Many  men  marry  off  the  streets.  Every  good  girl  who 
goes  on  the  street  marries;  we  must  believe  that  goodness 
rises  above  prejudices  and  conventions.  But  to  remain 
with  me  would  be  certain  ruin  for  her;  we  had  entered 
the  danger  zone.  We  had  been  together  three  months, 
and  after  three  months  the  flesh  wearies  a  little.  It  may 
be  that  I  am  wronging  myself  and  that  it  was  the  per- 
secution of  the  police  that  forced  me  to  persecute  Vera. 
Persecution  begets  persecution,  and  every  day  the  desire 
to  get  rid  of  her  become  more  intense.  I  counted  her 
steps  as  she  descended  the  stairs,  saying:  she  is  farther 
from  me  than  she  was  a  moment  ago,  and  when  she  re- 
turned I  counted  her  steps  as  she  ascended  the  stairs, 
saying:  she  is  nearer  to  me  than  she  was  a  moment  ago. 
Something  had  to  happen.  Oh,  it  wasn't  murder.  I  should 
never  have  had  the  strength  to  murder,  I  couldn't  walk 
upon  a  fly  on  the  ground,  but  it  would  have  been  better  if 
I  had  murdered  her,  for  she  would  have  suffered  less  at 
the  time,  and  I  should  not  have  had  to  come  here  with  a 


342      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

tale  of  cruelty :  determined,  premeditated  cruelty,  intended 
to  drive  her  way.  She  never  got  a  kind  look  or  word  from 
me,  till  I  told  her  one  day  that  she  must  leave  me  to  earn 
my  living;  and  you  would  do  well,  I  added,  to  be  about 
earning  yours.  She  made  no  answer  but  left  my  rooms 
without  a  word,  and  I  continued  to  write,  for  ten  thousand 
words  had  to  be  written  that  day;  they  had  been  promised, 
and  when  the  last  sentence  was  upon  paper,  I  stood  asking 
myself  if  I  should  have  sufficient  mind  to  address  the 
envelope  correctly  that  was  to  contain  the  pages.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  racket  in  my  brain  would  never  cease, 
and  I  said  to  myself:  I  cannot  direct  the  envelope.  But  if 
the  pages  do  not  go  now,  they  will  be  laid  aside,  I  con- 
tinued, and  it  was  while  waiting  for  a  moment  of  mental 
calm  to  address  the  envelope  that  I  heard  her  feet  on  the 
staircase.  She  will  be  here  in  a  moment,  I  said,  and  I 
cannot  look  her  in  the  face  after  my  cruel  words.  I'll  go 
out.  I  may  be  able  to  steal  away.  But  when  I  return  I 
shall  find  her  waiting  for  me.  There  was  no  time  to  think 
more.  I  listened,  sitting  quite  still,  so  that  she  might  not 
hear  me.  The  rooms  in  which  we  lived  were  divided  by 
a  partition,  so  that  I  could  not  move  without  her  hearing 
me,  so  I  sat  very  still,  saying  to  myself:  she  thinks  I 
am  out.  At  last  I  heard  something  drop,  and  what 
dropped  sounded  like  a  coil  of  rope — a  rope  drops  differ- 
ently from  any  other  object,  and  when  I  heard  her  pick 
up  the  rope,  I  said :  she  has  bought  a  rope  to  hang  herself. 
But,  I  said  to  myself,  if  she  means  to  hang  herself, 
she  will  open  the  door  to  see  if  I'm  out,  and  the  thought 
relieved  my  mind.  At  the  sight  of  her  face  all  mis- 
understandings will  be  wiped  away;  we  shall  fall  into 
each  other's  arms  more  truly  in  love  than  we  had  ever 
been.    .    .    . 

But  she  has  drawn  a  chair  forward  and  is  going  to  step 
from  the  chair  on  to  the  table,  I  said,  and  when  on  the 
table  she  will  attach  the  rope — to  what?  I  asked  myself, 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      343 

and  tried  to  remember  if  there  was  a  pole  above  the  window 
to  which  she  could  attach  it.  But  I  could  no  longer  think 
clearly.  My  thoughts  slipped  away  as  thoughts  do  in  a 
dream,  and  just  as  the  dreamer  says :  I'm  dreaming,  I  too 
began  to  think  I  was  dreaming.  It  must  be  only  a  dream, 
I  said,  and  a  little  time  went  by.  She  is  writing  a  letter, 
I  said,  giving  the  reason  for  her  suicide,  and  I  became 
strangely  curious,  asking  myself  what  reasons  she  would 
assign,  and  if  she  would  find  the  right  words.  I  must 
have  lost  consciousness,  if  not  for  long,  for  some  moments, 
for  I  remember  a  table  being  kicked  aside.  She  has 
hanged  herself,  I  said,  and  if  I  do  not  strive  to  shake 
off  this  lethargy,  and  run  to  her  and  cut  her  down,  she 
will  die  and  I  shall  be  responsible.  I  cannot  tell  how 
complete  or  how  partial  my  possession  of  myself  was 
at  the  time.  There  are  moments  in  every  man's  life 
in  which  he  is  not  himself,  in  which  he  loses  possession 
of  his  free  will,  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  free  will. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  I  could  not  move  from  my  chair.  I 
must  hasten,  I  said,  lest  I  be  too  late,  but  I  could  not 
move,  and  then  the  song  began  to  sing  in  my  ears:  her 
death  will  loosen  her  clutch  upon  my  life,  and  in  spite 
of  my  efforts  to  rouse  myself  the  time  went  by.  I  do 
not  know  how  it  went,  and  when  I  awoke,  for  I  felt 
that  I  must  have  lost  consciousness,  I  said:  she  is  dead, 
it  is  all  over,  and  dipping  the  pen  into  the  ink,  I  addressed 
the  envelope  and  walked  to  the  office  of  the  newspaper 
and  handed  in  my  copy. 

I  said  just  now  there  was  an  interval  between  the 
tying  of  the  rope  and  the  moment  when  she  kicked  the 
table  aside,  and  that  interval  was  occupied  in  writing  a 
letter.  That  is  so.  She  wrote  a  letter  before  hanging 
herself,  explaining  her  suicide.  The  porter  came  upstairs, 
and  the  police  came,  and  she  was  carried  away,  and 
buried,  and  disappeared  from  every  human  mind  except 
mine.     But  in  my  mind  she  persists,  becoming  every 


344      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

day  clearer,  more  distinct,  and  more  authoritative.  I 
feel  her  behind  me  in  the  streets;  I  wake  up  in  the 
night  and  see  her  in  the  darkness;  and  last  night  she 
bade  me  go  to  you:  thou  must  go  to  Ivan  Sergeivitch, 
she  said,  and  tell  him  all;  and  I  believe  she  sent  me 
to  you,  that  I  might  get  peace  from  her  memory.  But 
it  would  seem  that  the  dead  do  not  know  all,  for  you 
have  listened,  not  as  she  thought  you  would  listen,  but 
as  I  knew  you  would  listen,  without  pity,  almost  with 
contempt.  You  are  incapable,  Ivan  Sergeivitch,  of  a 
noble  action,  or  of  a  noble  thought  except  when  you 
are  interpreting  the  souls  that  your  imagination  reveals 
to  you.  You're  not  a  Russian  but  a  Greek — a  Greek 
from  the  Crimea;  and  all  the  while  I  have  been  telling 
you  my  story  you  have  been  judging  me.  .  .  .  True  that 
I  came  for  judgment,  but  the  sympathy  of  a  Russian 
Mujik  would  have  served  me  better;  you  have  submitted 
me  to  the  test  of  reason,  saying:  repentance  is  a  word 
without  meaning  to  the  philosopher,  and  confession 
disgraceful  and  unworthy  of  man.  Why  did  I  come 
here?  Did  I  not  foresee  all  this?  Vera  sent  me, 
and  I  did  not  dare  to  disobey  her.  She  said  that  I 
must  unburden  my  conscience  to  you  else  I  should 
have  no  peace.  Why  did  she  send  me?  She  sent  me 
to  you,  Ivan  Sergeivitch,  that  I  might  learn  from  you 
that  there  is  a  worse  criminal  than  I.  You,  sitting  in 
your  palace  of  art,  waiting  for  me  to  leave  you,  saying: 
how  much  longer  will  he  keep  me  from  my  manuscript, 
a  manuscript  in  which,  no  doubt,  a  nightingale  in  a 
wood  hard  by  is  singing  her  honied  song  while  a  heart 
yearns  in  a  shadowy  saloon,  like  this  one.  Rich  furni- 
ture, vases,  pictures.  Very  sordid  and  disgraceful  my 
life  must  seem  to  you.  But  I  would  not  exchange  mine 
for  yours. 

Cold-hearted   sentimentalist,   were  Dostoieffsky's  last 
words,  and  upon  them  he  dashed  into  the  ante-room,  and 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      345 

Tourgueneff  heard  the  clink  of  the  latch  of  the  door  that 
opened  onto  the  staircase.  And  did  Tourgueneff  sit 
there  letting  the  other  fellow  barge  him  for  an  hour 
without  a  word  in  his  chops?  The  Murrigan  should  have 
been  at  him,  leathering  him  all  the  way  down  the  staircase 
to  the  very  bottom  and  into  the  street.  And  what  did 
Tourgueneff  do  then?  I  answered:  he  just  dipped  his 
pen  in  the  ink  and  continued  revising  his  manuscript. 
Are  you  sure  you've  got  the  story  right,  your  honour? 
And  seeing  that  Alec  was  beginning  to  lean  towards 
Dostoieff sky's  view  of  Tourgueneff,  I  said:  a  man  is  not 
necessarily  cold-hearted  because  he  knows  he  cannot  allay 
another's  remorse.     Remorse,  Alec,  must  burn  itself  out. 


CHAPTER  55. 

ALEC  had  gone  away  to  his  tea,  and  I  sat  thinking  of 
the  talk  we  had  had  together,  for  it  seems  strange 
that  a  man  who  could  understand  a  story  could  not  appre- 
ciate Tourgueneff's  point  of  view  that  passion  and 
violence  should  be  avoided  as  not  being  sufficiently 
representative  of  life,  and  as  this  was  Tourgueneff's 
practice  in  his  art  it  would  be  vain  to  expect  him  to  treat 
life  differently.  But  such  a  comprehension  of  life  is 
reached  only  by  the  philosopher,  and  Alec  is  without 
philosophy.  The  Celt  ever  was  and  ever  will  be,  mayhap, 
evolution  having  ceased,  at  least  among  men;  and 
immersed  in  the  thought  of  my  country's  failure,  I  sat 
gazing  at  the  sun  resting  on  the  hillside,  and  bethought 
myself  of  the  quiet  change  that  would  come  when  the 
light  had  gone — a  change  within  and  without,  I  said,  for 
the  hawthorns  in  the  park  will  lose  their  shadows,  and 
my  thoughts  will  become  gentler,  pulling  on  spiritual 
wings.     I   shall   live   for   a   little   while   detached   from 


346      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

earthly  life,  as  we  shall  live  when  this  life  is  done  with. 
Never,  I  continued,  have  I  been  so  near  as  I  am  at  this 
moment  to  what  Christians  call  belief.  If  we  live  it 
will  be  in  a  twilight  valley  with  a  glow  above  the  hills. 
A  glow  of  what?  I  asked  myself,  and  it  was  seemingly  a 
voice  from  within  that  answered  me:  a  glow  of  happy 
aspiration. 

And  it  was  in  this  mood  that  I  walked  towards  my 
friend's  house  to  meet  him  on  the  greensward,  with  simple, 
homely  talk,  for  it  is  pleasant  to  enter  into  simple  talk 
with  a  friend  after  moments  of  enthusiasm  or  ecstasy, 
pleasant  it  is  to  hear  him  say:  the  weather  seems  settled 
at  last,  and  to  see  his  goodwife  coming  from  the  garden 
laden  with  fruit  and  flowers,  to  hear  the  wheels  of  the 
pony-chaise,  and  to  meet  the  young  girls  returning  from 
their  different  adventures,  a  tennis-party  or  a  picnic  on 
one  of  the  islands  in  the  Bay.  Which?  To  watch  the 
young  rooks,  not  yet  fully  fledged,  flopping  among  the 
high  branches,  waiting  to  receive  food  from  their  parents, 
and,  having  received  it,  to  see  them  return  to  the  nests 
for  the  night,  in  response  to  the  impatient  cawing  of 
their  parents. 

It  is  always,  I  said,  out  of  meditations  of  what  always 
was,  and  is  and  ever  shall  be  that  the  best  and  most 
moving  stories  come,  and  my  thoughts  going  back  to  the 
story  that  I  told  Alec,  I  said  to  myself:  Tourgueneff  was 
right  to  withhold  words;  his  silence  was  better  than 
absolution,  for  Dostoieffsky  will  seek  to  interpret  his 
silence,  and  will  be  led  towards  peace  as  day  is  led  towards 
night.  Where  have  you  left  your  new  friend?  my  host 
asked,  startling  me  out  of  my  meditation.  He  is  having 
his  tea,  I  answered,  and  repeated  the  phrase,  delighted  by 
its  homeliness.  He  is  having  his  tea.  Could  a  man  be 
about  any  more  useful  business?  He  is  having  his  tea, 
and  no  doubt  devoutly,  I  said  to  myself,  and  my  host 
asked  me  if  I  was  going  to  see  Alec  to-morrow.     He  has 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      347 

been  a  delightful  adventure,  I  replied,  somewhat  senten- 
tiously,  but  the  adventure  has  come  to  an  end,  and  it 
doesn't  seem  to  me  that  anything  will  be  gained  by  con- 
tinuing it. 

Another  story  from  him  or  myself  I  could  not  bear,  and 
to  escape  from  Alec  for  the  next  few  days  I  remained  in- 
doors till  the  news  came  up  from  the  town  that  he  had 
left  Westport,  and  was  not  expected  back  for  a  week.  He 
is  sometimes  away  for  weeks  at  a  time,  my  host  said.  I 
shall  not  await  his  return,  I  remarked — a  remark  that 
prompted  my  host  to  ask  me  if  I  were  going  to  Moore  Hall. 

And  after  putting  the  question  he  stood  by  the  fireplace 
pulling  at  a  cigar,  still  uncertain  that  it  was  fully  lighted. 
At  last  a  huge  puff  of  smoke  cleared  his  doubts  away, 
and  he  turned  out  of  the  billiard-room,  thinking,  perhaps, 
that  I  should  be  left  to  my  memories  of  the  great  square 
Georgian  house,  one  of  those  built  at  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  in  Ireland,  atop  of  a  high  flight  of 
stairs,  atop  of  a  pleasant  green  hill  with  woods  stretching 
right  and  left  down  to  the  shore  of  a  lake  flowing  round 
headlands,  past  islands,  and  finding  a  passage  between 
the  great  oak  wood  of  Derinrush  and  the  Partry  shore, 
widening  out  in  front  of  the  great  feudal  fortresses  of 
Castle  Carra  and  Castle  Burke  into  what  is  almost  another 
lake,  passing  round  Church  Island,  and  ending  in  a  great 
snipe  marsh  under  the  walls  of  the  old  Abbey  of  Ballin- 
tubber,  built  by  Roderick,  King  of  Connaught,  shall  we 
say  in  the  thirteenth  century;  a  crescent-shapen  lake 
with  Moore  Hall  at  one  end  of  the  crescent  and  Ballin- 
tubber  at  the  other — a  lake  on  whose  every  shore  is  a 
ruin,  an  ancient  castle,  a  burnt  or  an  abandoned  house. 
Even  the  lake's  islands  were  once  strongholds,  and  we 
dream  of  these  defended  fiercely  against  boat-loads  of 
pursuers  till  portcullis  and  drawbridge  came  to  be  for- 
bidden in  Ireland,  and  later-day  chieftains  deserted  the 
strongholds  of  their  ancestors  for  manor  houses,  retaining 


348      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

their  vassals  under  the  name  of  tenantry,  the  village 
supplying  the  big  house  with  hewers  of  wood,  drawers 
of  water,  ploughmen,  reapers,  gardeners,  gamekeepers, 
huntsmen,  jockeys,  maidservants,  menservants,  even 
mistresses. 

As  late  as  the  sixties  the  Georgian  house  killed  its  own 
mutton  and  beef,  baked  its  own  bread,  brewed  its  own 
beer,  and  the  last  brewer  at  Moore  Hall  was  John 
Malowney;  his  wife,  Mary  Macdonald  that  was,  and 
her  sister,  Betty  Macdonald,  were  cook  and  housemaid. 
These  Macdonalds  were  probably  the  descendants  of 
former  chieftains,  and  the  original  owners  of  some  of 
of  the  lands  my  great-grandfather  purchasd  when  he 
returned  from  Spain.  Whilom  chieftains  descend  into 
the  service  of  landlords,  and  the  new  landlords  fought 
duels,  there  being  no  castles  to  besiege!  The  Irish  castle 
flourished  if  the  cattle-raiders  returned  with  numerous 
beeves,  and  the  Georgian  house  if  the  blood  stock  were 
speedy;  it  showed  signs  of  declension  as  soon  as  the 
"crack"  began  to  lift  his  leg  when  the  back  sinew  was 
pressed  after  the  morning  gallop. 

My  father,  who  came  of  the  Protestant  ascendancy 
(a  fact  that  must  be  borne  in  mind  always — Irish 
Catholics  being  worthless)  rose  at  half-past  six  to  see 
the  horses  gallop,  though  nothing  else  could  persuade 
him  out  of  his  bed  before  ten.  He  was  a  good  judge 
of  a  horse,  given  overmuch,  it  is  true,  to  partial  and 
unsatisfactory  trials,  but  able  to  bring  a  horse  fit  and 
well  to  the  post.  Wolf  Dog  won  a  great  many  Queen's 
plates,  Coranna,  the  Caezarewitch,  just  failing  to  get 
his  head  first  past  the  post  in  the  Caezarewitch.  He 
cantered  "home"  in  the  Chester  Cup,  and  this  win 
kept  Moore  Hall  out  of  the  encumbered  Estate  Courts. 
Croagh  Patrick  won  the  two  cups  at  Goodwood,  and 
Master  George  all  his  races  till  the  suspensory  ligaments 
began  to  swell.     I  remember  the  day  my  father  came 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      349 

up  from  the  stables,  with  the  evil  news  on  his  face, 
and  his  valet,  who  was  fussing  about  the  hall  chairs 
with  one  of  my  father's  silk  hats  in  his  hands  (in  those 
days  men  did  not  go  to  the  stables  except  in  silk  hat 
and  gloves)  confided  to  me  in  the  pantry  afterwards  that 
he  was  afraid  Master  George's  forelegs  must  have  shown 
some  slight  puffiness.  We  shall  have  the  veterinary 
surgeon  down  here  with  his  irons.  Don't  you  believe 
in  firing?  Joseph  did  not  answer.  Back  sinews  and  sus- 
pensory ligaments  are  treated  differently  in  these  days; 
how,  I  have  no  knowledge,  but  in  the  sixties  firing  was 
a  great  device,  and  Master  George's  forelegs  were 
fired;  and  I  believe  it  was  the  memory  of  this  brutal 
remedy  that  made  it  so  difficult  to  remain  on  his  back 
when  he  was  put  into  training  again.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  he  had  me  off  three  times  one  morning.  Slieve 
Cam  was  the  last  of  the  Moore  Hall  horses  that  showed 
"form,"  but  he  was  too  beautiful  for  a  race-horse, 
"only  a  Harab, "  as  the  bookies  used  to  say  at  Newmarket. 
His  box  still  is  there,  and  it  was  a  sudden  sight  of  this 
loose-box  that  incited  me  to  cry  after  Tom  Ruttledge: 
no,  Tom,  I'm  not  going  to  Moore  Hall.  You'd  better 
make  sure  that  you  don't  want  to  go,  he  replied.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  down  to  the  office,  perhaps  you'll  tell  me 
when  I  return. 

It  seemed  unkind  to  refuse  to  spend  a  few  days  at 
Moore  Hall,  but  it  was  impossible  to  commit  myself 
definitely  to  the  visit.  If  a  visit  there  was  to  be  it  should 
come  about  naturally,  and  I  told  my  host  that  I  should  try 
to  come  to  a  decision  whether  I  should  visit  the  house 
of  my  birth  or  go  straight  to  Dublin  in  the  train:  I  shall 
be  able  to  come  to  a  decision,  I  said,  between  Westport 
and  Castlebar;  not  before.  There's  an  excellent  inn  at 
Castlebar,  and  I  can  get  all  the  food  I  shall  require  for 
a  three  days'  visit.  You  will  save  yourself  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  my  host  replied,  if  you  decide  now  what  your 


350      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

journey  is  to  be.  I'll  order  a  hamper  to  be  packed  for 
you.  No,  no,  I  replied;  and  invented  on  the  spot  some 
specious  reasons  for  wishing  to  go  to  Castlebar  by  train. 
I  should  like  to  see  the  railway  bridge  again,  I  said,  and 
half-an-hour  after  the  tall  arches  that  spanned  the  valley 
called  forth  my  admiration  once  more,  and  I  fell  to  think- 
ing that  if  both  ends  of  the  bridge  disappeared  into  the 
woods  the  bridge  would  be  the  most  romantic  in  the 
dis-United  Kingdom. 

The  eastern  side  of  the  valley  should  be  planted,  and 
while  considering  who  should  undertake  this  reforestation, 
the  pretty  shapes  of  the  Westport  hills  came  into  view, 
beguiling  my  thoughts  so  completely  with  their  pretty 
outlines  that  at  Castlebar  my  mind  was  not  yet  made  up 
whether  I  should  proceed  on  my  journey  or  drive  to  Moore 
Hall.  The  road  from  Castlebar  is  not  a  cheerful  one;  a 
certain  long  stretch  of  bog  rose  up  in  memory,  and  I  began 
to  think  that  it  would  suit  me  better  to  alight  at  the  next 
station,  at  Balla.  But  the  train  did  not  stop  at  Balla  and 
at  Claremorris  the  stationmaster  told  me  that  I  should  not 
be  able  to  get  a  car  on  account  of  the  races. 

How  very  unfortunate,  I  answered;  I  should  have  liked 
to  have  seen  Moore  Hall.  I  should  have  gone  over  in 
Mr  Ruttledge's  motor.  That  would  have  been  better  than 
a  car,  the  station-master  replied,  and  the  guard  blew  his 
whistle. 


CHAPTER  56. 

BETWEEN  Claremorris  and  Ballyhaunis  there  is  no- 
thing to  attract  the  eye,  and  the  people  that  entered 
my  carriage  and  left  it  at  Castlerea  were  of  a  class  un- 
known in  Mayo  in  its  feudal  days.  It  was  vain  to  try  to 
decipher  the  markings  on  the  shells;  the  kind  was  unknown 
to  me,  and  I  returned  to  my  own  thoughts,  remembering 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      351 

that  when  my  mother  lived  at  Moore  Hall  (which  she  did 
to  the  day  of  her  death),  she  used  to  say,  when  I  jumped 
off  the  car  that  brought  me  from  the  station:  why  that 
gloom  upon  your  face,  George?  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
sight  of  your  own  house  is  displeasing  to  you,  and  not 
wishing  to  distress  her,  I  answered:  you  are  mistaken, 
mother.  I  was  thinking  that  more  trees  should  have  been 
planted  to  shut  out  the  view  of  the  lake.  A  frivolous 
answer  truly,  but  the  best  that  I  could  find  in  those  days 
for  a  singular  aversion.  Why  should  I  feel  diffident? — 
why  should  I  feel  shy,  almost  ashamed,  among  the  old 
places?  I  often  asked  myself.  Yet  that  is  what  I  do  feel, 
and  unable  to  find  a  reason  to  account  for  a  feeling  that 
seemed  inveterate  in  me,  I  fell  to  criticising  the  alterations 
that  my  father  had  made  in  the  house,  trying  to  persuade 
myself  that  it  was  these  alterations  that  prevented  me 
from  feeling  at  home  at  Moore  Hall.  The  one  that  pro- 
voked me  most  was  the  raising  of  the  roof  some  ten  or 
a  dozen  feet  for  practical  reasons,  the  beams  no  doubt 
having  rotted  under  the  low  eighteenth-century  roof. 
But  I  could  not  forget  that  the  small  green-mortared 
slates,  like  scales,  were  much  more  beautiful  than  the 
modern  slates;  large  blue  slates  give  a  Georgian  house 
the  appearance  of  a  lord  mayor's  mansion-house,  and  only 
look  well  on  a  high-pitched  French  roof.  My  father 
substituted  plate-glass  windows  for  the  small  panes,  with 
eyes  in  them,  like  grease  spots  on  soup.  .  .  .  How  lovely ! 
and  it  was  with  such  aesthetic  reflections  that  I  tried  for 
many  years  to  account  for  a  strange  aversion;  as  late  as 
last  year,  I  said,  I  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  at 
Athlone,  seeking  the  reason  why  I  was  always  diffident, 
shy,  ill  at  ease  at  Moore  Hall;  and  feeling  myself  nearer 
to  apprehending  a  reason  that  had  till  now  eluded  me,  I 
repeated  the  words:  diffident,  shy,  ill  at  ease,  ashamed, 
frightened,  overcome  by  the  awe  that  steals  over  one  in 
the  presence  of  the  dead. 


352      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

Moore  Hall  is  a  relic,  a  ruin,  a  corpse.  Its  life  ceased 
when  we  left  it  in  1870,  and  I  am  one  that  has  no  liking 
for  corpses.  The  wise  man  never  looks  on  the  face  of  a 
corpse,  knowing  well  that  if  he  does  it  will  come  between 
him  and  the  living  face.  .  .  .  That  is  why  I  am  unwilling 
to  go  to  Moore  Hall,  and  why  I  avoid  the  Quartier  St 
Georges,  and  the  two  streets  leading  to  the  Boulevard 
Montmartre,  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  and  the 
Rue  des  Martyrs,  for  these  streets  are  so  intensely  my  past 
life  that  I  should  feel  shy  and  diffident,  just  as  I  feel  at 
Moore  Hall,  in  intruding  myself  on  their  presence.  It 
would  be  painful  to  me  to  cross  the  Place  Pigale  and  to 
enter  the  cafe  in  which  I  used  to  spend  my  evenings  of 
long  ago  with  Manet,  with  Degas,  with  Pissaroo,  with 
Renoir,  with  Cabaner,  with  Alexis,  with  Duranty,  with 
Mendes.  I  have  heard  that  it  is  now  the  haunt  of  ponces 
and  punks,  and  it  is  well  that  this  place  should  de- 
scend into  animal  life,  for  life  is  always  ascending  and 
descending,  and  the  ponces  and  punks  that  assemble 
there  to-day  would  shock  me  less  if  I  were  to  enter  the 
cafe  than  a  group  of  modern  litterateurs  discussing — ah, 
what  do  they  discuss?  is  there  anything  left  to  discuss? 

I  turn  aside  from  that  cafe  and  would  not  enter  the 
Rue  Pigale  if  I  could  avoid  doing  so,  for  however  fair 
the  moon  might  shine  it  would  not  shine  as  fairly  as  it 
did  the  night  when  I  walked  there  with  Mendes,  turning 
to  the  right,  making  for  the  Rue  Mansarde,  where  he 
lived  with  Augusta  Holmes.  Nor  would  I  enter  the  Rue 
Amsterdam  again,  Manet  forbids.  Three  years  ago  the 
mistress  of  a  friend  of  mine  asked  me  to  dine  with  her, 
and  I  did  not  dare  disclose  the  truth  to  her  that  I  could  not 
venture  into  the  Rue  Amsterdam.  A  shameful  cowardice 
it  was  to  accept  her  invitation,  and  my  punishment 
began  almost  as  soon  as  I  crossed  the  threshold,  and  it 
continued  all  through  dinner,  for  she  lived  in  73  Rue 
Amsterdam.     Some  sense  of  premonition  propelled  me  at 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      353 

last  to  the  window,  and  looking  from  it  down  into  the 
deep  courtyard  I  cried  out:  we  are  certainly  in  the  house 
overlooking  the  courtyard  in  which  Manet  painted.  She 
said:  you  must  be  mistaken,  for  I  could  not  have  missed 
hearing  that  so  great  a  painter  lived  here  once.  But  if 
you  think  that  this  house  is  the  house,  go  to  the  concierge 
and  ask  him:  which  I  did  at  once,  you  may  be  sure,  and 
he  said  he  had  heard  that  a  great  painter  once  lived  in 
the  house.  But  that  wall?  I  said.  The  wall,  he  answered, 
was  built  a  few  years  ago.  The  courtyard  is  changed,  I 
said;  but  is  there  a  studio  yonder?  and  he  answered:  yes, 
and  showed  me  into  the  studio  in  which  I  had  seen  so 
many  masterpieces  painted,  now,  alas,  an  art  class  for 
young  women. 

Not  another  instant  will  I  remain  here!  I  cried;  and 
I  returned  to  my  friend's  mistress  with  these  verses  on 
my  lips : 

Triste  sous  le  baiser  plaintif  dont  tu  m'effleures, 
Oh!  combien  ton  baiser  de  jadis  m'est  plus  cher! 
Les  choses  du  passed  ma  soeur,  sont  les  meilleures. 


CHAPTER  57. 

WE  must  love  for  the  sake  of  our  remembrance  of  the 
kiss  we  receive,  but  not  for  it,  and  of  all,  we  must 
not  hesitate  to  resist  whatever  piercing  longings  rise  up 
in  us  to  return  to  the  things  that  we  loved  long  ago.  The 
woman  may  be  more  beautiful  and  more  intelligent  than 
she  was  when  we  loved  her;  and  the  prospects  that  we 
remember  are,  perchance,  more  romantic  to-day  than  they 
were  when  they  stirred  our  imagination,  but  we  must  not 
try  to  return  to  them;  we  shall  lose  them  if  we  do;  but 
by  our  fireside  we  can  possess  them  more  intensely  than 
when  they  were  poor  illusive  actualities. 


354      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

I  can  see  my  father  more  clearly  to-day  than  I  could 
when  I  was  a  child,  shall  we  say,  as  he  sat  at  the  breakfast- 
table  reading  the  newspaper,  suddenly  remembering  the 
horses  in  the  stable,  and  laying  down  the  paper  and  going 
into  the  hall,  picking  up  his  silk  hat  and  gloves,  that  a 
valet  had  carefully  brushed  and  laid  on  the  chair  for  him. 
I  can  hear  him  call  to  the  red  setter  that  has  been  waiting 
for  him  on  the  steps.  I  can  see  the  great  hay-ricks  over 
against  the  stables  and  the  old  pine  in  which  the  gold- 
finches built  their  nests,  and  brighter  than  day  now  is  the 
day  when  the  old  servant  took  me  out  one  morning  and 
showed  me  the  nest  up  in  a  high  bough.  That  high 
bough  may  not  exist  to-day;  and  if  it  hangs  as  it  did  in 
the  sixties,  it  would  not  be  as  clear  to  me  at  Moore  Hall 
as  it  is  by  my  fireside  in  London.  By  my  fireside  in 
Ebury  Street  I  can  relive  the  delightful  life  of  the  sixties 
again,  seeing  everyone  in  his  and  her  occupation,  and 
every  room  unchanged,  unaltered;  my  nursery  with 
a  print  between  window  and  door  showing  three  wild 
riders  leaping  a  wooden  fence  in  a  forest.  The  school- 
room overlooking  the  yard  is  before  my  eyes — the  yard 
is  in  ruins  but  its  homely  life  lives  on — the  old  mule 
toiling  always,  bringing  up  water  from  the  lake.  The 
mule  is  dead,  and  my  old  governess,  too,  may  be  under 
the  ground,  but  she  lives  in  my  memory  and  will  live  in 
it,  becoming  clearer  day  by  day.  It  would  be  a  misfortune 
truly  to  meet  her,  for  no  longer  would  I  be  able  to  go  with 
her  for  long  walks  beyond  the  domain  out  into  the  high- 
road, over  Anney's  bridge;  through  the  long  bog  to  the 
next  bridge,  and  to  discover  a  crayfish  in  the  brook.  It  is 
a  wonderful  thing  to  see  a  crayfish  and  not  to  know  it  is  a 
crayfish — and  to  remember  Primrose  and  Ivory,  two 
ponies  dead  fifty  years  or  more,  and  the  day — my  mother 
drove  me  to  Ballyglass  to  see  the  mail  coach  swing  round 
the  hill-side.  The  coachman  held  the  reins  grandly.  The 
guard  blew  the  horn.     Why  should  I  go  to  Ballyglass  or 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      355 

to  Lough  Carra?  The  boat  with  sails  made  out  of  sheets 
stolen  out  of  the  linen  presses  lies  rotten,  or  has  utterly 
passed  away. 

But  if  Moore  Hall  lives  in  my  mind  completely  and 
independently  of  the  house  that  stands  on  the  hill-top, 
why  do  I  continue  to  refuse  to  accept  my  agent's  advice 
to  sell  the  timber?  He  says  that  a  thousand  pounds 
worth  of  trees  can  be  taken  out  of  the  woods  without 
injury  to  them,  and  if  he  could  see  into  my  mind,  he 
would  add:  the  trees  that  are  growing  to-day  are  not 
the  same  trees  that  were  your  wont  to  climb  in  boyhood. 
In  fifty  years  a  tree  changes,  even  as  a  man;  for  better  or 
for  worse,  all  things  change.  Why,  therefore,  should  you 
hesitate  to  fell  every  tree  on  the  hill-sides,  to  tear  the  lead 
from  the  roof,  to  leave  Moore  Hall  a  ruin  like  Castle 
Carra?  Rid  yourself  of  Moore  Hall  so  that  you  may 
possess  it  more  completely. 


CHAPTER  58. 

THE  train  passes  on  through  West  Meath,  and  I  am 
puzzled  to  find  an  answer  to  Tom  Ruttledge's 
subtle  reasoning,  and  am  forced  to  plead  an  invincible 
repugnance  to  the  felling  of  the  trees,  to  the  selling  of 
furniture  and  pictures.  No;  I  cannot,  I  cry,  do  what 
you  ask;  to  me  the  removal  of  a  chair  from  one  room  to 
another  is  a  pain:  any  change  would  hurt  me  almost  as 
much  as  the  selling  of  the  lead  coffins  in  which  my  fore- 
fathers are  enclosed.  But  even  if  you  succeed  in  pre- 
serving Moore  Hall  unchanged  for  a  few  years,  says  my 
agent,  whom  I  have  cast  for  the  part  of  the  tempter, 
Moore  Hall  will  certainly  fall  into  ruin.  As  soon  as  you 
have  gone,  the  trees  will  be  felled,  and  the  lead  taken 
from  the  roof;  Moore  Hall  will  be  a  ruin  within  a  very 
few  years;  for  not  a  great  many  years  of  life  lie  in  front 


356      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

of  you.  A  fact  that  cannot  be  gainsaid;  yet  for  some 
reason  hidden  in  me,  and  which  I  may  not  explore, 
I  dare  not  order  trees  to  be  felled  at  Moore  Hall.  You 
forget,  Tom,  that  everything  came  out  of  Moore  Hall: 
if  Moore  Hall  had  not  existed  I  should  not  have  existed, 
not  as  I  know  myself  to-day,  for  it  was  Moore  Hall  that 
enabled  me  to  go  to  Paris,  and  to  sit  in  the  Nouvelle 
Athenes  with  Manet  and  with  Degas;  to  gather  a  literary 
atmosphere  from  Hugo,  Zola,  Goncourt,  Banville,  Mendes 
— and  Cabaner. 


CHAPTER  59. 

AS  the  train  drew  near  to  Mullingar,  I  said  to  myself: 
Moore  Hall  was  built  with  Spanish  gold,  and  it  was 
the  peasants  around  the  house,  and  the  peasants  of  Ballin- 
tubber,  and  several  other  properties  that  enabled  me  to 
go  to  Paris.  It  is  therefore  to  Patsy  Murphy  that  the 
Carra  edition  of  my  writings  should  be  dedicated.  A 
strange  dedication  it  would  seem  to  my  readers,  but  if 
justice  were  weighed  out  evenly  the  Carra  edition  should 
go  to  Patsy  Murphy,  but  in  this  world  we  do  not  get  the 
things  that  are  due  to  us;  in  Ireland  things  always  take  a 
crooked  turn,  and  instead  of  dedicating  the  Carra  edition 
to  Patsy  Murphy  I  have  decided  to  dedicate  it  to  my 
agent  for  his  good  offices  in  obtaining  from  Patsy  Murphy, 
without  undue  coercion,  the  money  that  I  so  advantage- 
ously laid  out  in  the  Nouvelle  Athenes.  Patsy  Murphy 
has  been  a  patron  of  literature  without  knowing  it. 


A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY      357 


CHAPTER  60. 

OUTSIDE  of  the  circle  of  your  own  life  you  are 
unconcerned  with  the  fate  of  Moore  Hall,  my 
agent's  ghost  insisted  as  the  train  passed  by  Maynooth, 
and  I  answered  to  the  ghost:  that  is  not  so,  for  I  would 
prolong  the  life  of  Moore  Hall  beyond  my  life  if  it 
were  possible.  What  is  Moore  Hall  but  one  of  a 
thousand  other  houses  built  in  the  eighteenth  century? 
he  replied.  The  Nineveh  into  which  Jonah  marched 
for  three  days  before  he  began  to  preach  passed  away 
so  rapidly  that  the  shepherds  who  fed  their  flocks 
among  the  ruins  could  not  tell  Xenophon  the  name 
of  the  bygone  city.  Why  then,  said  the  ghostly  voice, 
should  you  trouble  about  Moore  Hall?  nobody  will  live 
there  again.  It  is  true,  I  answered  him;  time  overtakes 
the  most  enduring  monuments,  but  men  continue  to 
build,  for  they  are  created  with  that  intention,  and  every 
day  we  strive  against  death.  Why  then  should  it  be 
very  foolish  of  me  to  dream  of  Moore  Hall  as  a  hostel 
for  parsons  and  curates  when  I  am  among  the  gone? 
The  Irish  Protestant  Church  is  very  dear  to  me,  and 
Moore  Hall  might  serve  as  a  token  of  my  admiration 
of  a  Protestantism  that  has  given  to  Ireland  all  our 
great  men  and  our  Anglo-Irish  literature.  In  conversa- 
tion with  Hugh  Lane  I  once  said:  I  will  leave  my 
Impressionist  pictures  to  Moore  Hall,  if  you  will  include 
some  pictures;  together  we  might  found  a  museum  that 
would  attract  pilgrims.  But  Hugh  Lane,  who  was  some- 
thing of  a  sciolist,  answered  that  a  museum  was  useless 
unless  some  hundreds  of  people  visited  it  daily.  Three 
appreciative  visitors,  I  said,  are  better  than  a  crowd  of 
holiday  starers.  At  this  Lane  giggled,  but  his  prejudice 
in  favour  of  the  starer  did  not  relax.  Hugh  Lane  was 
undoubtedly  something  of  a  sciolist.     But  we  are  not 


358      A  STORY-TELLER'S  HOLIDAY 

yet  at  the  end  of  our  imaginations.  Another  destiny 
than  a  clerical  hostel  might  be  devised  for  Moore  Hall; 
a  rich  American  might  buy  my  house.  Ireland  is  nearer 
America  than  England,  and  sooner  or  later  Gal  way  will 
become  a  Transatlantic  port.  A  steamer  plies  from  Gal- 
way  to  Cong.  Cong  is  but  a  few  miles  away  from  Moore 
Hall,  why  should  not  some  rich  American  take  the  place 
from  me?  and  may  this  book  fall  into  his  hands  and  inspire 
him  to  do  so. 


CHAPTER  61. 

THE  train  passes  into  Dublin,  and  I  remember  that  if 
I  hasten  I  may  catch  the  train  to  Kingstown,  and 
cross  to-night.  Why  wait  a  day  in  Dublin?  Let  me  hurry 
to  my  fireside  in  Ebury  Street.  And  an  hour  later  I  am 
leaning  over  the  taffrail  watching  the  wake  of  the  ship 
as  she  pierces  the  waveless  Irish  Sea. 

It  is  the  past  that  explains  everything,  I  say  to  myself. 
It  is  in  our  sense  of  the  past  that  we  find  our  humanity, 
and  there  are  no  moments  in  our  life  so  dear  to  us  as 
when  we  lean  over  the  taffrail  and  watch  the  waters  we 
have  passed  through.  The  past  tells  us  whence  we  have 
come  and  what  we  are,  and  it  was  well  that  I  refused  to 
allow  the  trees  to  be  felled,  for  sitting  by  my  fireside  in 
Ebury  Street  I  should  hear  the  strokes  of  the  axe  in 
my  imagination  as  plainly  as  I  should  if  I  were  living 
in  Moore  Hall,  and  the  ghosts  of  the  felled  trees  would 
gather  about  my  arm-chair  in  Ebury  Street. 


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